Chapter Text
Asami straightens his tie again.
Somehow Mako keeps fidgeting with the unfamiliar tightness around his neck and knocking it askew. It also loosens every time he tugs its knot absentmindedly, as he frequently seems to forget that this isn’t his father’s scarf. Any disturbance to its appearance keeps drawing Asami’s attention and touch, which isn’t half bad, but he doesn’t want to contribute toward her growing agitation at a time like this.
She provided his formal suit for this evening: black slacks and a dapper suit jacket, white dress shirt, red tie and pocket square. It even has silver cufflinks that match her own jewelry. Asami seems dedicated to the mission of making him look as handsome as possible tonight, but she hasn’t drawn him out onto the open floor yet, so maybe he’s not even meant to be arm candy. Maybe she’s just showing him mercy.
The color of the tie makes him think of his father’s scarf, too, now worn by his grandmother. This kind-hearted woman at his side let his extended family stay in her mansion after they evacuated Ba Sing Se. Asami is a dear friend, and he owes her more than words can express. Attending some fundraising event with her for one evening is the least he can do.
Her gaze and hands linger on his tie for too long, though, and he gets the feeling she doesn’t want to turn her attention back toward the rest of the room. Asami has a lot of work to do tonight – a lot of mingling and networking and ass-kissing with the snobbiest sorts of rich people – and he can see this chore is beginning to frustrate and overwhelm her.
He feels like he’s meant to be a distraction of sorts tonight, a way to ground her and soothe her nerves each time Asami floats back around to their skirted table. He may be the lone familiar comfort in a place that feels ever so uncomfortable.
“Still no Raiko?” Mako asks once Asami leans back into her chair. They’re seated side by side at a mostly vacant event table, one of many in this fine establishment. There’s a crowd of people dispersed throughout the large room, all individuals with deeper pockets than Mako could possibly imagine. Their attire and attitudes reek of opulent lifestyles he’s never known.
But Mako is clean-shaven, hair slicked down, dressed to the nines. Pretending to be one of them. She needed a ‘date’ for the event, Asami explained, but clarified she needed a friend beside her more.
“He must surely have something more pressing to take care of,” Asami replies, her gaze scanning across the room again. They have not been able to catch a glimpse of Raiko or his wife all evening. “I refuse to believe the president of the United Republic would have so little interest in restoring its capital.”
“Does he not like events like this?”
“He makes appearances,” Asami says with bitterness flavoring her tone. “He just doesn’t like being questioned. And I’m sure a lot of these people have questions for him. That poor secretary doesn’t have answers for anybody.”
Mako wouldn’t put it past Raiko to skip such an important night. The focus is on the future, the restoration of Republic City in the wake of Harmonic Convergence, and these wealthy people have been gathered to discuss opportunities for investment and other prospective business ventures. President Raiko might be dodging this event to avoid the feeling of being interrogated. That’s what it looks like his secretary is going through, sweat beading on her forehead as she tries and fails to explain away his belligerence and incompetency.
Asami has tried for the past hour to rub elbows with these people. They’re all strangers to Mako, but she seems to know many of the important ones.
“Have you had any luck finding donors?” Mako asks next. If Raiko won’t get the ball rolling, Asami wants to. Her attention is currently fixed toward the restoration of downtown, where spirit vines have made many buildings including Mako’s apartment uninhabitable. Citizens are growing more and more displaced with each passing day, and Asami’s tender heart goes out to them all. But with Future Industries struggling, her plans need a bit of financial backing from elsewhere.
Asami leans forward to pick up her cocktail glass from the table. It’s a burnt orange-colored drink with a tiny orange slice affixed to its sugared rim. A sidecar, she called it, and it seems apropos for someone so passionate about vehicles.
“So far, no,” Asami says before taking a sip. A moment later, she takes a second, slower sip, allowing the liquid to linger in her mouth for a moment. “My family’s reputation is in the garbage. The Tsang family seemed interested in the new housing project, but ultimately didn’t want to have ‘Equalist ties’. Said that to my face, if you can believe it.”
Mako’s eyebrows pinch together. He registers the frustration soaked into her voice loud and clear. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. An Equalist wouldn’t have invited me, of all people, as their date – friend. They know we kicked Amon’s ass.”
Asami smiles in spite of her low mood.
Her full, darkly painted lips are a beautiful contrast to her complexion and jade green eyes. Her dress isn’t any shade of red or burgundy like he’s used to seeing on her. It’s a rich black, covering her shoulders, with its V-shaped neckline too modest to reveal much of her chest. The sleeves are nothing more than little frills surely meant to draw one’s gaze there.
But what has held his attention throughout the night lies further down. Below the table, where her dress cuts off mid-thigh, her black stockings are semi-sheer and show off every bit of her toned, shapely legs. They look strong, accentuated by those heels.
It is… a sight. A relatively modest dress, lowkey and formal, and far too gorgeous on a body like hers.
“I’m glad you invited me,” Mako says after she doesn’t reply for a beat too long. He lets his eyes drift down to admire her necklace next. It’s some overly complicated, silvery thing that he doesn’t quite understand the appeal of, but he understands the appeal of a classically beautiful woman. Perhaps his flattery is a bit too on the nose as he tells her, “It’s nice seeing you dolled up like this again.”
Her smile grows, but her gaze lowers as she swirls her cocktail. “You’re sweet. I know you hate these things.”
“Not hate.” But when Mako looks at the crowd, he realizes he’s only comfortable sitting down away from them all. So long as he doesn’t have to entertain a conversation with anyone else, he’s fine. It’s easy to enjoy himself when they’re just people-watching and she’s at his side. “Your company makes this tolerable.”
“I feel the same way about you. Thanks again.” Asami sets her glass down gently. She sighs, gathering her resolve, and moves to stand again. “Wish me luck.”
“Luck,” Mako says encouragingly, raising his own drink as she walks away, a woman on a mission.
He’s forgotten the name of his own cocktail, but he can taste its honeyed gin and lemon juice. It settles on his tongue and in his belly, warming him.
When Asami returns half an hour later, she looks unhappy.
“What’s the matter?” Mako asks as she plops solidly into her chair. The indelicacy of her movement is a sharp contrast to how delicate she looks. But pleasing contradictions have always been inherent to this woman.
Her legs cross beneath her, and he can see the entirety of her knees as she remains turned toward him. How can she make knees look good?
Asami exhales a tired breath before explaining what happened this time. “Mr. Adachi told me to step down from my position. I am just a ‘young lady’,” she emphasizes with finger quotes, “from a ‘bad family’. I should sell the company and leave the aviation industry for good, he says. There’s no room for people like me.”
Mako can feel his anger spike instantly. He doesn’t know this Adachi figure, but he imagines some older gentleman, some sexist pig that doesn’t understand the intellect or competency of this woman at all. “Do you want me to talk with him?” he asks, wanting to confront whoever said such nonsense to her.
Her father made his mistakes, certainly, but she’s a Sato as much as Hiroshi. She is the Sato now.
“And say what?” Asami shakes her head. Her hand reaches out to touch his wrist in his lap, if just to show appreciation for the thought. “Just stay with me. I like having you as my life raft.”
“I’m sticking right here,” Mako reassures, visualizing that role for himself. If she’s adrift at sea, he can be a little pool floaty, probably inadequate in this environment but trying his best. He settles back into his chair and tries to relax so she can, too. There’s a tension continually building in her and he isn’t quite sure how to alleviate it.
When a waiter strolls by, she orders a different cocktail.
This one is a beautiful light purple and garnished with a cherry. An aviation, it’s called. Even more fitting.
She chugs half of it quickly before sliding it to Mako to finish for her.
“Luck,” Asami requests.
He takes a sip of her drink. It’s floral, citrusy, sweet.
He wonders if it would taste the same on her tongue, or if she might taste like oranges.
“Luck,” he says, raising the glass as she departs again. His eyes linger on the belt cinching the dress around her waistline. She’s tall for a woman, but still so slender. He imagines he could pick her up if he wanted to. He’s rolled her on top of him before, and she wasn’t heavy then.
Mako downs the rest of the cocktail, trying not to think about that.
“Some people are nervous about instability in the Earth Kingdom,” Asami explains. Her black hair is let down this evening, flowing in thick, soft waves over her back and shoulders, only some of it pulled back on her left side with a clip. She pushes a loose tendril behind that ear, readjusting herself in her seat. “No appointed leader, unrest in the cities… As inequity worsens, a few cargo trains have been hijacked and looted. And they think it will just get worse with time.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that,” Mako says. It’s another country entirely, and they’re just two people.
If Korra were here – if she were feeling strong again – maybe she could influence the powers that be with whatever political pull she has as the Avatar. But she’s recovering in the South Pole right now, and no one knows when she will feel better.
“Right.” Asami picks up the toothpick with a pitted cherry on it from the aviation cocktail, noticing that he hasn’t eaten it. The dark red fruit is a near perfect color match for her lips as it slips between them. “Some investors like chaos. My father certainly did. But this feels like bad tidings… Market’s in a downturn. If it lasts, we’ll have a recession.”
“Nothing we can do,” he repeats, trying to convey to her that a nation’s economy isn’t her burden to carry. She shoulders a lot more than she should and feels a lot of obligation to help this city. But she is just a young woman, and he can see there is simply too much on her mind and plate.
“We can always do something,” Asami disagrees. She gestures toward the rest of the room. “They think their wealth puts them above the rest. Like lower-class people don’t matter. I don’t want to be like that.”
She’s never wanted to be like that. Mako remembers how Asami hit him with her moped, then immediately asked him out, even knowing that he couldn’t afford to eat at Kwong’s and didn’t have any sort of suit. She provided clothes for him then, just as she’s provided a suit for him now. She’s always been accommodating, supportive – her lending her entire home to his impoverished family is proof enough of that.
Asami still doesn’t hesitate to keep him beside her, knowing he comes from nothing and still has nothing. She is immensely empathetic and compassionate in a way he may never fully grasp.
Mako didn’t appreciate those parts of her enough in the short time they were together.
More’s the pity, he thinks, wishing he had another drink.
One very boring hour later, Mako finally convinces himself to get up and walk around. He finds the restroom first because alcohol makes him piss like none other. Then he’s at the bar, not knowing the names of anything and requesting they surprise him.
The bartender lady must like the cut of his jib. Maybe it’s just the cut of his tailored suit. Her eyes linger on the square of his shoulders as she offers something that looks as dark as black tea, with a curl of orange rind settled in the liquid. It tastes both sweet and bitter on his tongue.
After stretching his legs a bit and successfully avoiding socializing with people, he returns to their table, only to find that Asami has beaten him to it.
He takes his place beside her, drink in hand. “I would’ve gotten you one if I knew you’d be back. Now I seem rude.”
When Asami scrutinizes his cocktail, a smirk settles on those lips. “You went and got yourself a hanky panky? Looking forward to something tonight?”
Oh.
“The bartender decided for me,” he explains. His face feels hot, maybe from the bit of alcohol settling into him. Maybe from the way Asami’s eyes begin to linger on his suit just like that woman’s did. “I think she liked me.”
“I’m sure she did.”
Asami straightens his tie again, then brushes some errant curl of hair back into place near his forehead.
She pulls the glass from his hand then. Slender fingers brush against his, cool to the touch, and he wonders if she feels cold with that much skin exposed. Maybe she should’ve brought a jacket.
Maybe later in the evening Mako could give her his own, black matching black, swamping her frame. It’s a good mental image.
When she takes a sip, it’s oddly thrilling how her lips leave a print of lipstick on the rim.
“Sophisticated taste,” is all Asami says before setting the glass down on the table. But by the slight hunch of her shoulders, she seems deflated almost, as though she’s losing enthusiasm for the night. She’s had little success thus far and nothing is going according to plan.
At least she stays seated with him for a good while this time around. They discuss how Future Industries has been progressing. She’s done her best to restore its credibility in the wake of her father’s scandal, but the recent changes to their world have added a number of new financial and logistical difficulties.
When Asami begins discussing international shipping and business relations, Mako thinks of all the letters they’ve been sending southward.
Asami must have the same train of thought, because she then asks, “Have you received any letters from Korra?”
He’s sent one every week she’s been away. She was supposed to be gone for only a few weeks, but –
“No,” Mako says glumly, trying not to look as upset as he sounds. Their cocktail glasses are empty, and he doesn’t need anything more. But thinking about how Korra is hurting so badly and is still so far away makes him want to drown in his sorrows. He would drown in Korra’s sorrows if only he could relieve her of them. “I think the mail might not be reaching her.”
“It is. I made the courier service confirm receipt of a package.” Their eyes lock for a moment, both considering what all that information implies. “Senna collected it herself. It might take two weeks, but all the letters get through... It was a thoughtful gift, and I thought it might entice her to at least send a thank-you.”
Mako doesn’t want to believe it. He’s sent – They’ve all sent countless letters. Bolin sends several every time he remembers. Asami is certainly keeping Korra in her thoughts, writing letters as frequently as Mako does, if not more often.
“It’s been four months,” Mako states flatly. If it’s been one per week, that’s sixteen letters from him, maybe more. And she’s chosen to ignore them all?
“She might not be able to write,” Asami says. Her face twists as she becomes visibly distraught by that realization. Her hands clench at nothing in her lap. “She… couldn’t hold utensils. After.”
“She can speak. Someone could write for her,” Mako disagrees, not accepting that excuse. But he stops being irritated as soon as he registers how upset Asami looks. When she holds a hand in front of her mouth, it looks as though she could cry.
“Hey. It’s okay,” he tries to reassure, placing a hand on the back of her chair. “I know she needs time to get better. We’ll just… keep writing. Keep updating her, so she doesn’t feel disconnected from us or the city. She considered this her home. I’m sure she’ll be wondering about how we’re doing. Wondering about how you’re doing.”
They became best friends, Mako knows. In the time between Harmonic Convergence and when Korra left, they were thick as thieves and somehow always together. Asami cared for Korra in those two weeks between the poisoning and her departure for the compound, too.
Mako was informed about the severity of her injuries, but respected Korra’s request for no visitors. She didn’t want anyone to see her like that. He saw Korra at Jinora’s ceremony, and saw her before she left on the ship… Not visiting her any more than that was deeply regrettable, in retrospect. He didn’t know she would be gone for so long.
But Asami was the exception to the rule. She put in the effort when he failed to do so, and stayed with Korra. She was the only one Korra wanted by her side.
“I miss her,” Asami whispers, and it certainly sounds like she wants to cry. “I… I’m so confused right now. When I think about her, it’s like…”
Those words trail off, and she doesn’t finish that thought.
When she sniffles, Mako’s hand moves to touch her shoulder, hesitant and unsure if she wants support from him in this way. But she has no one to touch her now, no one else to comfort her like this. No family. No friends closer than himself and Bolin.
Bolin is a whirlwind of fun. He makes a good distraction, and probably would’ve been better at this date-friend thing.
She certainly could have invited Bolin, but she didn’t.
Mako doesn’t know how she can still tolerate hanging out after… everything.
“I don’t know how to word it,” she says. “I don’t know if I should put how I feel into words. That makes it real.”
He imagines he understands what she means. There are too many emotions to be felt with Korra now as she recovers. Worry, hope, misery. Guilt. When he thinks about Korra being sick, his chest twists with grief and sorrow. Four months of silence hasn’t alleviated any of their concerns.
A big part of Mako will always love Korra – her charismatic, fiery personality is irradiant – but they grew apart since their break-up. She isn’t obligated to respond to letters from a shitty ex-boyfriend who argued with her all the time. But he can’t imagine how difficult it must be for Asami to be left in the dark, too, particularly if Korra remains unwell. Doesn’t Asami deserve a status update?
He can’t understand Korra’s complete silence now. Why would she neglect a friend like Asami, who clearly cares so much?
What was the point of keeping Asami close then, for those two weeks, if she won’t let Asami be close now?
Mako’s fingers squeeze her shoulder, just gently, trying to express how much he understands the pain of Korra’s absence. “It feels awful, knowing she’s going through this without us.” He doesn’t tell Asami there’s nothing they can do. “But she’s a fighter. She’ll get through this, and she’ll be back soon.”
Thinking about Korra comes with a whole different set of concerns that has nothing to do with this event, where Asami’s focus should be. These emotions are important to process, but he knows this night was supposed to be important, too.
“Don’t worry about all of that tonight, okay?” he requests. Asami can worry at home, after they leave this place, when there are fewer eyes upon them. “We can talk through this another time. I’m here for you, in whatever capacity you need.”
Asami pulls a cloth napkin from the table and dabs at her eyes. She’s a professional – her makeup doesn’t smear from her tears or her touch.
“She’s on my mind all the time,” Asami admits. “Can she walk? Can she eat? I hope she’s able to sleep, at least…”
His exes don’t owe him anything. Not their letters, not their company. But he wants to be more than just ‘an ex’ to the both of them.
When he thinks of his role as a friend, he understands Asami does indeed need his comfort now. That’s what she’s been reaching out for, he supposes. That’s what she explicitly requested. Maybe she needs connection with any friend at all, since her best friend remains so painfully absent. Even if her friend of choice for the night is Mako and things are weird between them.
He draws Asami into a hug then, both of them sitting, his arms wrapping around her shoulders and back. It’s a loose embrace and she accepts it readily, tucking her face against his neck. He’s held her like this before, when they spoke of losing parents. When they dealt with the Equalists and her father. After Korra got hurt by the Red Lotus.
Asami was a stumbling mess of tears that first night as healers tended to Korra’s broken bones. Korra might’ve had a seizure that night, too, and when visitors were escorted out, Asami didn’t know who to turn to for comfort then. She found Mako crying in a way that he never does, and maybe Asami recognized a kindred spirit in that moment.
They don’t talk about that moment.
“I wish I went with her,” Asami says, and the tension in her body makes him feel like she’s going to continue venting if he doesn’t slow her down.
He shushes Asami quietly, not unkindly. One hand gently strokes down her back. “Sweetheart. I think your brain is overheating from too much stress.”
This is not a good night – not a good place – to cry about the things they can’t change. The entire point of this evening was to facilitate positive change.
“Maybe so.” She sighs, and her breath feels warm against his neck. “I need something to calm me down. These drinks aren’t cutting it.”
Mako doesn’t know what could possibly settle her nerves. The most relaxed she ever got with him was when they’d go out and share drinks. Those had made her flirty, bubbly. But they’re sharing drinks now, and this is the least relaxed he’s ever seen her.
When he continues stroking down the length of her back, she seems to melt into him a bit.
His arms squeeze her shoulders once more before he draws back to meet her gaze with his own. “I’d offer you a back rub for real,” he tries to joke, “but maybe this isn’t the place for that.”
That makes her smile. With no more tears to be found, she sets the crumpled napkin back on the table.
“Maybe you could rub my feet,” Asami says, and he thinks it’s probably a joke too. Probably. “These heels are awfully pinchy.”
He’s not sure how to respond, and for some reason that inspires her to show him. She scoots her chair back enough to lift one leg over the other, allowing a calf to rest on her other leg’s thigh. She unfastens that shoe and pries it off.
Her fingers point to wear they must be rubbing, right at the back, where the skin looks a little bit red and irritated beneath the sheer material. But his attention is drawn to the darker seam of her stockings, right at her toes.
“I’m not…” Mako pauses, feeling strange and uncertain of how to phrase what he’s thinking. “I’m not a feet guy, but I would rub them for you.”
Shit.
Her shoes are hurting her and she’s joking about needing physical comfort, but not… in that way. She obviously isn’t asking him to touch her feet in a sexy way.
Feet guy? Really?
“I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I’m not coming onto you.” His sudden inhale is ragged as he thinks about cumming onto her. He knows he sounds stupid. He sounds and thinks like a pervert. “I don’t like feet.”
She laughs then, understanding and maybe a bit too amused by his perpetual awkwardness. “Whatever you say. I’m glad someone appreciates me,” she says, and she wiggles her foot at him playfully. “All of me.”
That heel is slipped back on. Then she scoots forward, hiding her legs from view beneath the skirt of the table.
He licks his teeth, unhappy with how he’s mischaracterized himself. Doubling down only brought more attention to that absurd idea. He’d rather rub that calf, or knee. Or her back again. In a non-sexy way, of course.
Maybe in a sexy way.
Distracted by those thoughts, it takes Mako a moment to truly register what Asami has said.
I’m glad someone appreciates me.
Does she not feel appreciated?
Does she not know how amazing she is? How brilliant, how kind?
He considers the night she’s had. Does she feel rejected by all of these strangers?
By Korra?
“Asami,” Mako starts, shifting himself closer to ensure she takes him seriously. “You’re the loveliest person here. The most thoughtful, sweetest, truly good person here.” He gestures toward the gaggle of rich, performative assholes. “These people are all thinking about climbing the ladder. You’re thinking about helping civilians. You’re stressing yourself silly worrying about your best friend. Do you think your heart is not appreciated?”
Asami’s face tightens.
“There are so many great parts of you,” he insists. “Don’t ever doubt how well-loved you are.”
“My best friend,” Asami says carefully, as if tasting those words on her tongue like the sidecar. She turns her attention away from him at that, letting her elbows rest on the table. Even he knows that is poor etiquette, but she doesn’t seem to care at all as she pushes her knuckles into her eyes, stifling tears again.
Asami tries to mingle twice more. There’s a little success this time, but anxiety is soaked into her features now. Her stress is making her more fidgety than angry now, even when she drags Mako around with her the second time. She’s attached to his arm and can’t stop fiddling with the fabric of his sleeve and his cufflinks and his fingers.
“These truly are rubbing the back of my feet raw,” she complains once they retreat to the safety of their table, showing him her heels again. “And these stockings are itchy. And every time I move, it’s like the garters keep tugging…”
“Garters?”
Mako feels a bit warm in his bones as he asks this. He’s heard the word before, but it’s a nebulous concept to him. Some sort of additional clothing that goes under dresses and skirts sometimes.
“They’re bands that clip to my stockings, holding them up,” she explains. Her chair is turned toward him again so he can see her knees and the bottom halves of her thighs darkened by the sheer fabric. The garters must be a bit higher. “It fastens around my waist.”
Mako tries to picture it. Clips on stockings, fastened to her waist, and everything in between.
“I... see,” he says slowly, and maybe it’s a bit too apparent on his face that he’s thinking about her panties now.
Maybe pantyless. Just stockings, garters, and all of that smooth, unblemished skin. Asami is wild enough to do such a thing, he imagines.
There’s a moment then where her eyes linger on his.
Burning into him knowingly. Fiercely.
Hopefully Asami can’t read his mind that well. He hasn’t done anything inappropriate with her, but his thoughts have certainly circled repeatedly around the idea that this woman is beautiful. He’s been enraptured by her since the moped incident. But that physical beauty still doesn’t hold a candle to the beauty of her person.
Mako cows under pressure easily, but for some reason, at this moment, he doesn’t. She's the one talking about garters and he shouldn't be so spineless as to look away from her now.
His amber eyes are fixed solidly onto hers, trying to decipher what she could possibly be thinking in return.
The tension only grows between them as their eyes stay locked, however. Maybe it’s the drinks that have given him this bit of courage, but she seems surprised as he matches her energy.
She should speak first –
But neither of them speak.
Something eventually shifts in her expression. As her head cocks to the side a bit, her eyes wander across his face, then downward.
After many moments too long, he realizes he’s been holding his breath, waiting for her to say something else.
Asami looks at the empty glasses at their table instead. He’s eaten her orange slice – or at least sucked the juice from it, leaving its rind and a bit of its flesh tossed haphazardly back into the glass.
For some reason her hand finds his over his knee, whisper-soft before its grip gains confidence. He’s been turned toward her, too, with their legs almost touching. When her hand tugs his closer, it’s like she’s somehow dragging his whole body to the edge of his seat, beckoning his body to approach hers.
Watching his face again, her fingers settle his palm against her knee. He feels the texture of the thin material then.
It’s almost a ticklish sensation as she begins drawing his fingers further in, toward the rest of her body.
Her skin is warmer beneath her dress. His skin feels warmer in his cheeks.
“Asami,” he says quietly, not understanding her intent. Their gaze is broken as they both look down, at where his hand disappears under the fabric.
Maybe he does begin to understand her intent as she draws his hand up further. It’s becoming harder to misinterpret. A few inches beyond the bottom of the dress, he finds the edge of her stockings. His fingers scale along the border until he finds one of those clasps, right over the top side of her thigh.
“Do you like how they feel?” she asks.
His fingers toy with the little bit of metal, warmed by her too-soft skin. When they rise higher, he can feel its band of fabric pulled snug against her smooth thigh. “They’re soft,” he says, not really talking about the garters. “Warm.”
“Do you like it?” she asks more breathily, and he knows she’s not just talking about clothing either. “Do you like touching it?”
It’s a strange thing to experience. It seems like she wants him – wants him to touch beneath her dress like this – but he is her not-date tonight, and friends don’t do things like this.
“I do,” he answers. He loves touching her. From what he remembers, she loves to be touched, too: often, thoroughly, quickly, roughly. Two of his fingers tuck beneath the garter. He pinches the band, pulling it back slightly and releasing so it snaps against her leg. “I like the tension…”
Mako remembers to look around, surveying the area around them. It’s reasonably late into the event now, with far fewer people, most of them on the opposite side of the room near the bar. No one else is at their table and no one is paying attention to them.
He looks like he’s leaning forward, but the table surely obscures what they’re doing.
What are they doing?
“With these, I like that I can wear stockings that don’t go all the way up, unlike pantyhose,” Asami explains. “That makes it easier to do things like this.”
She pulls him the rest of the way up until his digits run out of thigh to stroke. He touches the fabric of her panties then, and it feels like greeting an old friend.
“What color are your garters?” Mako asks, imagining how they must look around her waist. Cinched like that belt.
“Black.”
His eyes meet hers. They’ve been trained on him for a while, taking in his expression as he feels her.
“What color are your panties?” he asks next. He can feel his pants are growing tighter, blood rushing downward, heat pooling in his groin.
Asami licks her lips. “Black,” she says again.
When her thighs open for him, he graciously accepts the invitation. His fingertips slide between and search for the warmest part of her. The fabric there is so soft, something nicer than cotton, like silk. Through the fabric, he can feel the softness of her, too, and he knows this bit of skin would feel like silk if he ran his fingers through her bare slit.
There is a distinct dampness here, a sign of her desire.
“They’re soft,” he tells her, and he knows his voice is growing husky with want. One finger presses into where her clit must be, making her thighs tense with excitement. “Wet.”
Asami sighs as his finger rubs small spirals against her there. “Let me show them to you,” she suggests.
She drags him away from their table. He’s thankful he had a moment to strategically reposition his cock upward, tucking himself under his belt, and his suit jacket is long enough to hide how terribly aroused he is. No one cares as they disappear through a random pair of doors, entering some other part of this building.
Asami likely isn’t familiar with the entirety of this place, but she nevertheless walks through it like she owns it. The back hallways are only partially lit. She selects a random door, tries the knob, and it opens for her.
Turning on the light, they realize it must be a conference room of sorts. There’s a long wooden table surrounded by chairs.
“Good,” Asami says simply at the sight. Drawing Mako into the room behind her, she closes the door and locks it.
“Asami,” he says again, realizing what all this means. What all she’s planning.
They slept together a few times in the brief time they dated, and once more after that, before Mako fucked everything up for a second time. He surely doesn’t deserve her company like this.
Maybe she’s drunk and not thinking straight. Even if she seems to want him now, she hasn’t shown interest in him outside of tonight – not since they were ‘not dating’, before Harmonic Convergence. He believed she would never want to return to that. Whatever that was.
When she hops up onto the table, her dress is lifted for him instantly, drawn up to her waist. She reveals the black garter belt and black stockings and black panties that instantly make his dick jump in his pants.
He pushes his cock down, letting it escape the pressure of his belt. It tents his pants better now, which Asami notices, but it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.
“Are you too drunk for this?” Mako has to ask. Their friendship is already so rocky, so fragile, from all of the ways he’s hurt her. He can’t let himself hurt her again. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
Her thighs spread in invitation. “Are you too drunk for this?” she asks in return.
He shifts his weight, not amused by her cheekiness. “How much did you drink?”
“One and a half,” she answers. “I’m buzzed. You?”
“Two and a half.”
“So I should be asking you.” Her legs shut, one crossing over the other as she leans back on her hands to observe him. Several seconds pass as she gauges his uncertain expression. “Do you want this to continue?”
She has only had one drink. One and a half, and then a sip of the hanky panky. He knows a drunken Asami well enough, and all that she has consumed tonight is not enough to muddle her thoughts to this degree. It’s just enough to take the edge off, which is what she needs tonight.
When Mako closes the distance between them, her knees quickly part enough to allow him in between. He tucks himself against the lip of the table, hips inches away from hers.
“I want what you want,” he answers. But he knows what she wants. His hands slip around behind her, finding the swell of her ass before tugging her body to the edge, to his hips. His gaze searches hers, taking in the mild flush to her cheeks, the way she’s forgetting to close her mouth, the way her eyes are heavy-lidded and dropped low between them.
“I want to stop thinking,” Asami tells him. One of her hands reaches the bottom of his red tie, loosely grasping it as if to hold him by a leash. “I want to forget about political instability, financial instability... Emotional instability.” Her smile is wry, unamused by the thought of something left unsaid. “I want the one thing I’ve been able to rely on tonight: you.”
When her hips roll forward against his, his mouth goes dry.
“I wanted you to touch me before, you know.” Her voice has lowered into a whisper. “I wanted you to finger-fuck me in front of a crowd. I thought about you crawling under the table just so you could suck my cunt like you did that orange slice.”
If she keeps talking this way, he’s going to cum in his pants. They haven’t even kissed and she’s so bold, so upfront about what she wants.
“I want you to keep touching me now,” she says. “But if you don’t want to, there’s the door.”
There is no way he’s leaving.
He thinks about sinking down onto his knees, putting his mouth on her like she wants. Perhaps this table is the right height for that.
“I wanted to taste you all night,” Mako tells her, thinking of how she let the alcohol linger in her mouth. “I wanted to know if you tasted like oranges.”
“Cointreau,” she corrects, tugging his tie again. He finally leans into her, letting his mouth align with hers. “The sidecar has lemon juice. I want to know if you taste like oranges.”
Neither of them do, really.
When their lips meet, it’s like something else takes over his body.
Her lips are soft and full, a morsel of decadence as they brush his. He may be overeager, pressing forward too fast, but she meets him without hesitation. Their mouths part in perfect rhythm, her tongue meeting his, tasting of cherry more than anything.
Her hands roam down his abdomen, appreciating every contour beneath his shirt, while his find her backside again. They rock together then, letting his cock thrust against where he knows she’s damp.
When his lips leave hers, she gives him a soft whine. It twists into a laugh when she realizes he’s sinking to his knees.
His mouth trails from her neck, across the fabric of her dress, and lower. These clothes don't even need to come off. He greets two clips of the garters, his new best friends, with a kiss to each. Both hands lift to cradle her thighs, coaxing one up over his shoulder. She scoots to the very edge so it’s possible to kiss her where she needs him most.
He doesn’t waste any time, knowing what kind of person she is in bed. She doesn’t play games. He uses his right hand to pull the fabric of her panties aside. They’re a sliver of black silk, drenched with her arousal now, and they feel wet against his cheek as he finds her body with his mouth.
Mako isn’t the best at this, he thinks. He’s had a little practice across a few partners including Asami, but Asami was the one who was most upfront when explaining what to do. He remembers her instructions from before: a rainy night, at his apartment, where legs had been draped over his shoulders and cries of pleasure had harmonized with thunder.
She hammers those instructions back into his mind as she verbalizes what she wants. “Suck me,” she breathes. When he glances up, her eyes are locked on him, heavy-lidded and focused, drinking in the sight of him. He finds her clit with purpose, pulling her into his mouth like she demands. Her legs clamp around his head, one heel pressing into his back. “Lick it, up and down, just like – Oh. That’s it. You remember.”
He does. It’s hard to forget the motion when you’ve done it for minutes on end, face buried in the cunt of such an amazing creature. The rhythm comes back easily: broad strokes of his tongue, slow at first. He fine-tunes the pressure, the speed, adjusting instinctively to the way her breath stutters, to the way her fingers find and tighten in his hair, hips shifting in shallow movements that guide him into the tempo she needs.
He can feel her body starting to coil, the subtle way she tenses to keep him right where she wants him, the sharp catch in her breath.
There’s something intoxicating about being used like this. The way she grinds against his face, the way she holds him there like her personal, willing possession. It’s reverent, filthy, dizzying. One hand leaves his hair just to catch herself as she begins to lean backward onto the table.
He doesn’t even slide his fingers inside before she’s finishing against him, gasping as she leaks more sweetness down onto his chin. As much as he’d love to lick her clean, he leaves all of that wetness for this next part.
Rising to his full height again, he divests himself of his suit jacket, throwing it away from himself. Then he begins to unbuckle his belt.
She’s still breathless, still high off her orgasm, but her fingers fumble to help him, undoing the buckle and the button. He pulls his clothes down just enough to let himself spring free.
“I missed this cock,” Asami says, taking him into her hand. Her thumb smears the slick across his tip, teasing the skin forward and back again.
“For you,” Mako promises. His hands find her ass again, and with a grunt he hoists her off of the table, surprising her. He lifts her against him, supporting her weight on his abdomen, and she seems to catch on as her arms curl around his shoulders and her legs clamp around his hips.
“Fuck me,” Asami begs, and his hands squeeze around her supple flesh as he pulls her away from the table. It’s several steps until he can press her into a blank bit of wall.
Maybe she bumps it a bit rougher than intended, but she seems to love it as she shoves a moan into his mouth alongside her tongue. He readjusts her weight in his arms – she’s not much of a struggle to support like this, with her assistance – and rocks his hips up into hers. His cock drags roughly along the fabric of her underwear.
Panting against her, Mako readjusts again, one arm slipping beneath a leg so her knee can hook into his elbow. His fingers reach below, drawing Asami’s panties to the side. The head of his cock slips through her slit, first on accident and then intentionally as he hears the whines and gasps it causes. He deliberately thrusts against her clit, making her shudder again.
With one arm curled around his shoulders, she frees the other to reach between them. “I’m not going to ask again,” Asami warns, but the strength of her voice falters as he drags across her clit again. His hips draw back enough to assist with lining himself up.
When he sinks inside her, he can feel just how wet and hot and ready she has been for him. He gives her a few inches, then withdraws. Then a few more.
She curses, throwing her head back at the feeling of being so full. They’ve never fucked against a wall like this – he’s never taken anyone against a wall before – but it feels like this position works. Both of her arms return to his shoulders, hanging on as he begins to move with more rhythm.
Mako wants to jackhammer into her, but isn’t sure how long he could last like that, and he needs to make this good for her. When his thrusts go deep, with each shove of his cock controlled and full of intent, it seems to please her just as well.
“What is that angle?” Asami asks between gasps. He can feel himself bottom out inside her, filling all of her, but it doesn’t seem to cause pain from this angle. “Oh, fuck. Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
Despite his even pace, his thrusts become rougher, hips snapping sharply enough to bounce her. He’s hitting her deepest point and stretching at some part of her that’s bringing her some new sort of bliss. Her nails dig sharply into his shirt. Her mouth switches attention from his lips to his chin. When he clenches his jaw, she licks along the length of it as if it were his cock.
Her heat is sweltering silk around him, tightening and bearing down in random intervals. When he registers how she’s periodically holding her breath, focusing, it sounds like she’s nearing finishing again. She moans and clenches around him so hard that he has to stop for a moment. As pleasurable as this is, his arms and thighs ache after a few minutes of supporting her in this way. Thrusting deep, hitting that new spot she likes, she seems to be so close.
But as his arms burn and tremble with exertion, he finally has to throw in the towel and release her down onto the ground.
Asami curses again as he slips out, less in anger and more in surprise. They give themselves a few seconds to catch their breath. She undoes the hair clip on her left side, freeing her hair and allowing herself to run her fingers through it. “That was the closest I’ve ever been to finishing just from penetration,” she admits, blinking a few times as if to clear some haze from her vision. Her hair clip clatters to the floor, abandoned.
“I’ll work on my endurance.” He’s instantly dissatisfied with himself, so close to victory, and he couldn’t hold her weight long enough to get her there.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” she tells him. “I can’t even get myself off that way.”
When she turns to face the wall, he's on her again. Filthy visions swim through his mind as he considers all of the ways she must touch herself. Does she use her fingers? Use an object?
Does she ever think about his cock when she does it?
How many fingers can compare to him? Three? Four?
Asami braces against the wall for him, hiking her dress up and pulling her panties to the side in warm welcome.
When Mako's body nestles against hers, his cock plunges back into her in an instant, the strength of his thrust lifting her off of her feet momentarily.
Her pleased cry is loud, rejoicing, even as her palm smacks against the wall.
He knows this angle. Maybe not this position, but she taught him what to do when taking her from behind like this. He doesn’t attempt to reach her deepest depths like before and instead angles toward her bellybutton, thrusting hard against her front wall.
It’s the right call. She’s trembling quickly, struggling to hold herself upright as he is finally able to hammer himself into her. Their hips clap together loudly, obscenely, and he can hear the overly wet way in which her pussy eagerly accepts him.
With one arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand drags her dress up a bit over the curves of her ass. Her panties aren’t wide enough to cover everything. His breath comes in rapid pants as he admires the view of her bent for him – black dress, black hair, black everything, except for the creamy skin of her cheeks. He can feel her fingers as she tugs the panties further aside, then begins touching herself.
It’s a compromise. He’s brought Asami close enough to completion with just his cock that it’s just a number of seconds before she’s clamping down around him. Her pussy grips him so hard he has to stop thrusting. She flutters around him, her orgasm rocking through her. He wishes she would scream for this, like she has before, but this time she brings a fist to her mouth, trying to silence herself. It only half-works, as with each quake of pleasure she moans and gasps.
She’s the most gorgeous thing in existence when she comes, Mako decides, even as she’s faced away from him. When he palms across her back, he can feel the dip of her spine, the curves of her shoulder blades. When he squeezes her hip, it’s softer.
Maybe they should’ve taken clothes off for this, if it’s just a one time thing; there’s nothing prettier than her body.
But he likes how filthy this is. How wild and debauched. She hasn’t even taken off her heels.
He sinks inside her deeply, as far as he can go. There is less concern about bringing her to completion now that she’s had two.
“Are you close?” she asks him.
Both hands splay around her hips. Tugging her forward and back, he fucks her onto his cock, and she seems willing to pick up the motions for him. His whole body tightens and tingles, tense in anticipation.
“Yeah,” he says, although it sounds more like a groan. When she clamps down intentionally, he does groan. “Did you want more?”
Asami hangs her head. Her laugh is just a short breath. “I want your cum.”
That makes his thrusts stagger unevenly.
“Do it inside me,” she clarifies. When his thrusts pause completely, she picks up the slack, rocking back into him firmly.
When she looks over her shoulder, eyes catching his, it drags the breath out of him and drags his hips back into hers. He feels his pleasure building, coalescing. Heat radiates through his groin and tingles through his body as he slides within her.
As his climax nears, his movements are choppy. She meets each thrust halfway, encouraging him with soft, deliciously nasty language.
It’s just a handful of pumps later that he’s able to fulfill her request. He burrows in as deep as he can go, slowing when he feels himself begin to empty himself into her. His cock jerks hard within, and maybe she can feel it as she moans and wriggles against him, encouraging him to give her everything. His whole body feels hot.
A moment later, he tries to regulate his breathing again as he gradually slips himself out of her.
She relaxes her stance, shifting her panties and dress back into place as his hands finally leave her body.
His hand pushes back through his hair, mussing it before he realizes it was supposed to be slicked back. Sudden clarity reaches his mind. He just fucked his ex at a… fundraiser thing. They disappeared, sneaking off to fuck. He took her on a table and then against a wall.
This is... not how he expected the night to go.
Asami tries to recollect herself, too, straightening her hair and clothes. As he softens, Mako tucks himself back into his boxers and pants, feeling wet but uncertain what to do about that. Her scent is going to linger on him until he can get home and shower, and just that thought is enough to make him twitch again.
When she approaches him, looking the slightest bit bashful, he wishes he could read her mood better. But there’s a sense of calmness in her features that he hasn’t seen all night.
When he takes her into his arms, and finds her lips with his own, it’s like she melts into him again. Comforted by him, for some reason, despite everything.
When they part, she straightens his tie again.
A few minutes later, they’re slipping back into the main event, her hand dragging his forward. They find their chairs again – empty cocktail glasses gone, along with many attendees.
Perhaps it’s time to go home. Asami sits anyway, flagging down a waiter. She orders herself a hanky panky and him a sidecar.
He lets her suck his orange slice, then tastes the juice on her tongue a moment later.
She enjoys the kiss, but stops him suddenly with a hand to his chest. Maybe it’s because they’re in a public place, a formal environment – but her gaze is drawn down to his lips before she closes her eyes tightly.
Mako withdraws, sipping the sidecar instead, not tasting nearly as much orange there.
He people-watches as she toys with her own cocktail, not really drinking it now.
“I guess Raiko never showed,” Asami says, and it’s a struggle to gauge her thought process from just her facial expressions.
“I guess not.”
“I can feel your cum dripping out of me,” she says next, and it knocks the breath out of him in an instant. “Ruining my panties.”
Mako finishes the last of his drink, letting the sidecar linger in his mouth as he appraises her. He tries not to choke as he says, “That’s a shame.”
“Is it?”
Her hand finds his, dragging it up the length of her thigh like before, beneath her dress. There’s more confidence in both of them now. There’s more heat in his cheeks than ever as his fingers slip between her hot flesh and panties, feeling more wetness than usual. His release mixed with hers, trailing slick down onto her thighs.
When he withdraws, her face is as flushed red as his must be. His too-wet fingers slide against the length of the garter, snapping it one last time before they part. He wipes his cum onto those stockings and it’s the nastiest he thinks he’s ever been.
Her chest heaves, and it looks as though she experiences a second wind, wanting him again.
Asami doesn’t take him home with her, even as he doesn’t have a home to return to and is still sleeping at the police station. Beifong threw a cot into one of the storage closets for him, gracious as she is, so that’s his home now.
The ride to the station is quiet. The chauffeur is feet away from them, and he imagines she wouldn’t want to discuss such private matters in front of her staff.
Her hand is on his thigh, though. His arm is around her shoulders. She’s looking down, at nothing rather than at him.
Neither of them know what to say.
Mako doesn’t want her to be any more stressed than she was earlier this evening. His touch proved to be soothing for her, relaxing her shoulders, removing the crease from her brow. Her tension and anxiety are gone, but he can still sense that her mind is whirring faster than anything. This is a brain that never slows down, for good and bad.
His fingers find hers in his lap, trying to comfort her. Hopefully she’s not thinking about Korra again, or all those lost business prospects, or the civilians she may not be able to help. He hopes she’s not regretting their evening together.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” Asami says, and it sounds like regret.
Her voice is quiet, but it echoes in his ears, its message loud and clear.
His hand withdraws.
When the car pulls up outside the station, Asami doesn’t get out with him.
Before he closes the door, he leans against the frame of the car and dips his head down to look her in the eye. She meets it, but looks tired.
“I had a good time,” he tells her, hoping she understands that he doesn't regret this. He doesn’t regret any time spent with her. He only regrets his own many mistakes that led to losing her, hurting her. And he hopes this wasn’t another mistake that hurts.
When she doesn’t reply, he tries to not let it hurt himself, but fails. “I’ll see you around?” he asks, needing her to talk to him. To say anything.
“Of course,” she says. Her smile is small. “You can’t shake me.”
He pulls back slightly, drawing himself off of the car. “I wouldn't want to.”
There’s another lengthy pause between them. He can’t read her mind, as much as he wishes he could. It feels as though he’ll never understand what she’s thinking.
“Goodnight, Mako.”
“Rest easy,” he tells her.
Maybe his company was beneficial, even if things have become even weirder between them. Even if she doesn’t truly want his company and only wanted whatever this was, for the single night. He can fit into whatever niche she needs: the not-just-an-ex, not-a-date sort of friend that sometimes fucks her into a wall.
He thinks about their conversation about Korra, the tears she shed for her, and he wishes they were close enough to discuss such difficult things openly. But he’s never been good at being open and honest, and he doesn’t know if she would want him as an emotional comfort in any capacity. Probably not.
“Call me if you need anything,” he tells her anyway. “I’m here.”
Six days later, his knee slams into the ground as he rolls out of the cot half-asleep, rapidly rising to his feet to answer the station’s telephone. He can tell it’s late, nearly morning.
It’s Asami, sounding exhausted, as if the entire world is burdening her shoulders again and she hasn’t slept a wink.
“Will you come over?” she asks, and he can hear the implication in her voice. “I could use the company.”