Title: You, Entire
Summary: Korra knows that the first time's never perfect and all that, but Mako wants to get this right.
Word Count: 2004
"I — " Mako starts. Takes a breath. Tries again. "I've never done this before. So don't get any grand ideas in your head."
"Never," Korra says with amusement. She closes her eyes, leans her head back against the cushions, and concentrates on the interesting way his cautious hands are ghosting over the skin of her abdomen.
"I mean it," he mutters, and she can feel his breath against her sensitive heat, tingling. "If I fuck up, just — " He cuts himself off, as if irritated that the words aren't coming, and huffs out a frustrated sigh; she sucks in a breath when the motion stirs the skin there. "Just yell, or something. Let me know. All right?"
"Mmhm." Korra's too busy to worry about words. Her legs are tossed over Mako's muscled shoulders and every breath he takes is stirring her further, teasing the goosebumps rising on her skin, and the pressure's so thick, demanding so much attention, that she feels like she might explode if he doesn't touch her within the next thirty seconds.
"I — " Mako shakes his head, hair brushing lightly against the inside of her thighs. "Just," he says quietly, "nevermind. Okay."
Without further warning, his lips are suddenly there, light and hesitant — she gasps at the contact, and Mako grows bolder, burying his head deep, licking and exploring.
His tongue is so wet and she's so hot and she feels the faintest hint of sharp teeth brush against her lips, but then he makes a noise, then he breathes, and spirits, she can feel the familiar ache hitting her full force, rising up below the surface of her skin. A drive for this, a lust for this, she's been waiting for this…
Korra feels her eyes glaze over, lids fluttering shut. One hand is fisted in the pillow behind her head, pulling at the cushion as she arches back, lifting her chin to the ceiling; the other is straining over the sheets, nails scratching against the material as she searches for a firm grip.
She glances down: all she can see of Mako's head is a dark mess of hair that covers his face as it nuzzles and explores. His strong, pale shoulders move steady under her dark thighs. The long fingers of his left hand are splayed across her stomach, rough callouses on his palm rubbing against the smooth skin there.
She catches a glimpse of his eyes, dark in the low lighting as his lips push again against her opening. He's focused himself, cool under fire (of course, of course) and makes long laps with his tongue, tasting everything she has. Korra widens her thighs, feels him burrowing his mouth even deeper. He bores over her, within her, washing over like velvet.
Korra can barely hear the odd noises coming out of her mouth, much less stop making them, for all she's worth. She reaches down to clasp his head, fingers twisting in that coarse dark hair, and shudders when his other hand wraps around her left thigh.
Mako tries something new with his tongue, something that curls and burrows deep and tight and in and —
S — spirits…
She makes a sharp, sudden cry deep in her throat, pushing against his mouth —
Mako draws back. The lack of his mouth, the lack of him, leaves her momentarily fuzzy and distracted; Korra starts to protest before she catches the look on his face. "What?" he says.
She blinks, startled. She still burns, aching, but Mako's looking at her so oddly, as if he's waiting for her to start talking. "What, what?"
"You yelled," he says slowly. "What'd I do wrong?"
It takes all she can not to laugh at his bewildered, apologetic expression. "N-nothing," she says, careful her tone doesn't sound patronizing. "It." She swallows. "Mako, it was great. You were great. That wasn't a request to stop…"
Mako looks to the side, flustered. "Well." He stares intently at a spot on her right thigh a centimeter from his nose, refusing to look at her above or below. "Sorry, then. For, uh, killing the mood."
"Finish what you've started," she says, grinning. "It was good. Really. Until you stopped, that is."
Mako swallows, then removes his hands from her stomach and thigh — slowly, always so slowly — and brings his head down again. Before his lips come fingers, though, lean and nimble, testing and gentle and cautious — so, so cautious.
Spirits, she muses, if it's taken the man this long to feel comfortable even doing something remotely sexual, much less talking about it, then it's a miracle he could ever take a bath without fainting at the immodesty of it all.
He distracts her thoughts with his tongue again. The heat is burning up within her again, a familiar fizzing beneath her skin, rushing and overwhelming. Korra grinds against him and Mako buries his head deep between her thighs, flush against her heat, the fleshy skin of her thighs, her everything.
When her legs start quivering, Korra figures that she may not be long for this world. She pushes her legs together, pressing his head even tighter into her groin, and Mako takes the hint: he moves faster, dipping into a quickening rhythm, and Korra jerks her hips in response.
She throws her head back, eyes closed. Her mouth's wide open but she doesn't make a sound; there's only the noise of the sheets rustling, her tightened gasps and sighs as she comes back down, and Mako's thrumming, steady breaths below.
"Well." When she comes back to herself, her voice cracks and it's so raspy that it's barely audible, anyway, so she licks her lips and tries again, smirking. "Well. Not exactly what I was expecting, but you always were full of surprises."
"Don't be arrogant," he mutters, pressing a tentative kiss to the inside of her thigh. "I never made you any promises."
…No, he hadn't. In fact, he's been pretty quiet about the entire thing since the beginning — and hell, even during. Korra bites her lip. "Look, if this isn't something you're okay with doing, then no problem, I mean…"
"I never said that," he says suddenly, looking up. His eyes lock on hers and Korra blinks at their intensity. "You'll never hear me say that."
"You just — " He shrugs and looks away, staring back at that same spot on her thigh again. "Hear stories. In the locker rooms, and all. And from… well, you know. So you want to do it right."
No, she didn't know, but she could imagine. It would probably be pretty hard to escape detailed anecdotes on the numerous accounts of his colored love life, considering Mako was his brother and all. Bolin would, of course, be the kind of man to please the lady first. Hearing stories for years and knowing that the teller has a level of proficiency and familiarity that you yourself would probably never reach has got to sting, somewhere, even for someone as adamant and impervious to such things — almost untouchable — as Mako usually seems.
"It's no big deal," Mako says now, as if convincing himself. He pushes himself to his knees and moves around to her side, thumping his head back heavily against the sheets next to her stomach. "I mean, it's just Bolin. But I figure, if we're going to do this — you know, do this, regularly, or something — then I wanted to make sure you know."
Korra turns on her side and reaches out, careful, to thread her fingers into his hair, soft and tender. "Know what?"
"That…" The bulge in his throat moves as she watches him swallow, his silhouetted profile outlined against the moonlight shining in through the window above. "Well, I can make it about you first, if you want. I don't mind that."
It strikes her that he's embarrassed. It's hard to wrap her mind around Mako being so vulnerable (sohuman) to be shamed of sexual inexperience; but here it is. He's scared.
She's still not fully adapt to reading him and all his mannerisms, but she has familiarized herself with the way his brows come together and his jaw clenches when he's stressed; she's gotten used to recognizing when the corners of his eyes will soften and — if she's lucky — the corner of his lip might twitch upward when he may feel in good enough spirits to pass her a compliment. But she hasn't seen enough yet to understand the raw, wanton desires that he buries deep behind his masks of cool indifference. They've both wanted each other for a long time, wanted to see each other bare and writhing and fiercely open and honest, if only just once — but she never imagined, even in her wildest daydreams, that he would ever be focused on making it all about her.
Watching him bend for her so easily, quietly asking as soon as they'd closed the door if it'd be all right — really all right — if he were to put his mouth on her, you know, there — and knowing that he's stacking himself up to the mental image of his brother, strikes her. Mako may be ambitious and occasionally arrogant, but he's never selfish.
She knows that the brothers have aimed their sights for the championship winnings, that they live in the attic of the arena because they have nowhere else to go, and that Mako has cared for, sheltered, fed, clothed, and protected his younger brother since the tender age of seven.
But she doesn't know his fears yet, or his desires, that go beyond the pro-bending jackpot. At times training seems like all he truly cares for — and upon being told various stories of their childhood, she has stopped blaming him for such — and yet she still sometimes doesn't feel like she knows who Mako is beyond a big brother, a team captain, a level-headed firebender that's been hardened by everything the big city has thrown at him.
Korra catches glimpses, though. Like now. Flashes that reveal things, sometimes, if she peers close and uses her head. Things that tell her how much he really loves those dumplings from South Street by the hungry look in his eyes when he readily passes the last one over to his brother during rushed dinners before practices; things that tell her he would have been content with resigning himself to stay longing for her forever, judging by the soft, tender expression that could pass over his face on occasion when she proved she could properly execute a play in the ring; things that tell her she doesn't truly know much about what he personally may truly want or need, really, at all.
But she'd like to learn.
"You don't have to live up to anything," she informs him now, and she takes note of the subtle way his head shifts toward her at these words. "And this isn't just about me, you know. I don't want to leave you wanting here, either."
Mako closes his eyes. "Don't worry about me."
"You won't let anyone else worry."
He blinks at her, tilting his head up diagonally to catch her gaze. "I'll be fine."
"You'll be fine," she agrees, "but you won't be happy. This is a mutually beneficial thing here, Mako. I can meet you halfway."
"You're the Avatar," he murmurs. "You don't have to do anything."
"Nothing except what I feel like," she replies, reaching her hand down. She moves to gain better access and strokes a path falling over his broad torso. Korra feels his breath stutter in his chest as her world narrows down to the faint brush of hair trickling down his stomach that leads into his undone trousers, into a world she doesn't yet know, and then she glances up. "I've never done this before, either," she informs him smartly, "so if I mess up, then let me know. Deal?"
"…Deal," he murmurs, breath already hitching, and Korra grins, then unfastens the buttons and lowers her head to the rising bulge of his groin.