fuse_box | pushing it

Entry tags:

universe: after the city

pushing it

WHO: Korra & Hei
WHAT: Korra’s getting restless.

[Korra sits on the ground of Hei's toolshed and tells herself that she should seriously work on that patience thing.

She's alone in the house. Her health has been improving enough that she doesn't need a constant babysitter, so when Asami called to say that she had a last minute meeting at Future Industries, Korra told her it was fine and not to worry about it. She can stand up to reach food in the cabinet. She can walk the distance from the bathroom door to the toilet. She can even (as she knows from testing earlier today) walk around the entire house.

The distance from the house to Hei's toolshed? Not so much. It had seemed like such a great idea, practicing walking while getting the tools to fix the wheelchair ramp. She's been itching for something to do, something physical, something that matters even just a little. But by the time she reached the toolshed, her strength was exhausted, and she had to use the last of it for a controlled fall.

So she sits and meditates on the virtues of patience. After some rest, she tries to earthbend herself back onto her feet. When that results in nothing more than a bruised bum and sore ribs, she tries meditating on the virtues of patience some more.

And really hopes Hei gets home soon. She really doesn't want to have Naga carry her back to the front porch like a cub.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ It would be so much simpler if he were a magician or an artist. But they both know his talent lies in bloodier areas. ]

[ He sidles back indoors, paying no mind to the fluffy white swirl of Cat dawdling at his feet, rubbing against his trousers as if demanding to be included in the conversation. To Korra: ] I didn't make those prints. They were already there. [ He doesn't get into the technicalities of the chemicals in the powder reacting with the components in the sand and air -- or try to explain the basics of carbon atoms and fossilization. That sort of dry subject-matter would go over her head. ]

[ He simply stretches out on the sofa, peering at her good-naturedly over the edge of a throw-pillow. (It says a lot, that he's capable of this -- how his movements are sluggish, gaze half-lidded and warm, like he's taking the chance for this kind of rare banter.) ]

All living things are based on a substance called carbon in my world. You could say there's a static number of carbon particles in the world. No more or less today than a thousand years ago. Things are born, live, die, dissolve to component elements. They leave a print behind, like a shadow -- while their pieces go on to be part of new life. Like clay: mold a catowl, smush it up, mold a wolfbat. The bulk of matter never changes. Only the creations.

[ He realizes he's getting pedantic, and shakes it off. This isn't a science lesson. Instead he reaches out to gently tweak her nose. ]

People are cobbled together out of carbon bits that were once other things completely. You may have a flying lemur's tail in your nose. A chunk from the South Pole's ice-caps in your eye. Even your ears could have bits of Avatar Aang in them.

[She bats his hand away, nose wrinkling as she imagines a flying lemur's tail replacing it, or having Aang in her ears. The concept actually makes perfect sense to her — she's quite familiar with the idea of returning to the earth to be born again as something new — but she's never thought about it in the way that Hei's explained it.

She wheels herself over so she can slide onto the couch and lie down alongside him. The way he's stretched out, how could she resist joining him? There's just enough space left to practically be an invitation.]

Where'd you learn all this?

Library books.

[ He says it in the tone a boy would use, a secretive, half-playful, Don't tell anyone. ]

[ When she stretches alongside him, he enfolds her, carefully, senses leashed to her warmth. This sort of closeness between them still feels novel enough that something foamy sloshes in his gut, a gentle warmth lapping out across his body's meridians. He curls an arm around her, palm sliding down to her waist and to her spine, following its sleek natural declivity. Fingers skim along her hipbone, through too much fabric, then boldly slide under her shirt and rub circles across bare skin. ]

[ The look he gives her is sloe-eyed, appreciative, as if Korra has just invented gunpowder, chopsticks, electricity, the Black Russian, all in one. ]

[It's still thrilling to Korra to really feel something when he touches her like that. Silly as it may sound, those weeks of detachment and disinterest had been terrifying, as she wondered if she would be that way her entire life. Fortunately, that isn't the case. She might not have the same strength and abilities as before, but she's still able to enjoy her body...and Hei's. She slides her own hands under his shirt and impulsively kisses his neck, scraping her teeth gently where it meets his shoulder.

She'd like to have some kind of witty response to him, but she doesn't, and there are much more interesting things to focus on.]

[ That period of deep ennui still rattles him, a reminder in its own way of how he and Korra began. When he'd started his relationship -- such as it was -- with her, he'd felt barely alive. He can remember all those times, when there seemed to be an invisible glaze of ice between them. When he couldn't decide if he didn't care, or if he merely lacked the energy for her intensity. It is exactly the same with Korra. Everything she is going through now ... is what he'd been inflicted with before. ]

[ He can't decide if it's karmic. Or just pathetic. ]

[ She palms his chest, lips doing those shy yet amazing things to his neck, and a prickling surge goes through him, a river rush of feeling like he's only ever felt for Pai, a strange vertiginous thing -- but far from innocent. Lashes lowering, he curls out a faint smile for her. His hips push forward, helplessly, letting her feel the hardening crux at his groin. He can feel taste dancing on the tip of his tongue. A bright crackle like lightning-bolts and pure sugar. But it's dangerous -- always -- to give them a proper shape. ]

[ He starts to say: ] Listen. I -- [ But then he stops, as if teetering at the edge of a blade, as if he's read a bad verse on a hallmark card and is slapped by disgusted dread. ]

[ In the end, all he does is exhale. ]

You know.

[She grins, a mix of smug satisfaction and giddy delight as he presses against her, but she doesn't reach down for it, or acknowledge it in any other way. She just presses more kisses against his neck while her nails gently scrape his back. She doesn't look up when he says Listen, assuming that he's going to make some suggestion about what they should do.

Except he doesn't. He stops, sighs, and ends with You know as if his meaning is perfectly clear, and she has no idea what he's talking about. So she pulls back enough to look at him, frowning a little in confusion & concern.]

What?

[ Something in his dark gaze shifts. It isn't exactly a softening; more an uncertainty. He can feel something collecting under his skin: the same vicious buzz-saw sensation he gets before a fight, when he grabs instinctively for his blades, or when sirens whoop in the distance and he whips out a wire and exits the crime-scene. A need to establish distance, stability, control -- because the Black Reaper never gives more than is wise. Because he understands that's how life works, that it's harder to love than to feel nothing at all. Harder to be there for those you love -- to see them get hurt, get sick, be taken from you in sudden awful ways. Indifference is dead simple. It asks nothing of you. It eats you from the inside out, sure, but it takes no effort or thought at all. ]

[ Unlike this -- which asks more from him than he'll ever be ready to give. ]

[ He shuts his eyes and sighs. It is a compressed, bitter sound, small but weirdly isolated from the warm bubble around them. When he speaks, his voice is almost a stranger's, dark as dark, dry as wintry sand. ]

I love you. But you work my nerves.

[ The inflection is emotionless, its truth plain and smooth and flat like a bullet, and the bullet slides into the chamber of awareness with a quality that is exactly as it should be, fitting with a click of completeness and a potential for danger. ]

[Korra has never really indulged in fantasies of hearing him say those words directly. He's hinted at, alluded to, and most importantly, shown through his actions how much he cares. But if she ever had entertained little dreams, they never would have been like this: flat, distant, dark. A declaration of emotion without any emotion in it.

Also, you work my nerves What's that supposed to mean?]

I'm...not sure how to take that. [She squeezes him gently before adding —] But I love you too.

[ It means what it means. ]

[ Her response is so matter-of-fact -- so bittersweetly simple -- that he can't help but smile: quiet and small. He notices nothing else around him, could be shot dead that moment from point-blank range and never see it coming. Most people would think of someone with Korra's history as being anything but innocent anymore, but at that moment, to him, innocence practically defines her. Pegging emotions so neatly has always failed Hei. He complicates everything he touches; it is his nature. He problematizes things, possesses ambivalences, deals in verbal traps and coded subtexts and all the masked jargon that comes with spycraft. If the rest of the world is solved tomorrow, his own emotional state will remain an open case to him. ]

[ Korra isn't like that. She's a big tangled fascination of little details within, yet she cuts through everything like a slice of sunshine. She doesn't reside in the gray; she still sees things in shades of black and white. You're happy or you aren't. You love someone or you don't. It's childlike yet he's grateful for it. Because with her he can stop trying so hard, and sink down into the pursuit of ... whatever he is pursuing. Closeness. Heat. Understanding. ]

[ He doesn't say anything. Just kisses her, a soft slide of lips, brushing his tongue into the seam of her lips, along the crooks, his focus honing on those tiny wet folds, that place on a person's mouth which is like the smallest furl of a univalve. Home from work, he should be making a beeline for the fridge, yet this is the first thing he wants to taste; the only thing that speaks to his hunger. ]

[This is much better. This, at least, she understands. He's always been better expressing his feelings physically, like touch bypasses whatever's in his brain that makes him shut down and detach in the middle of an emotion. And she's fine with that. Words are important, but she'll be the first to admit they can be really hard, and she likes to cut through them whenever she can.

It takes a depressing amount of effort to hook her leg around his so she can rock against it, but at least it's well-rewarded. She makes little noises of pleasure and need into his mouth as the roll of her hips sets off sparks deep in her belly. Her hands slide down into pants to cup his bare ass and pull him even closer.]

[ His breath hitches in his throat as she rocks beneath him, rubbing the way the shamans in those Brazilian tribes made fire. The heat and weight in his groin gets less diffuse: his kisses take on a hungry, questing edge, eating up her sweet little vocalizations like spools of spun sugar. His cock is a solid fistful by now, trapped in the tight confines of his pants. Wedging a hand between their bodies, he unzips himself to free its aching length, takes it in his hand and twists on the upstroke, as if warning himself not to leap too far ahead. ]

[ The recent pace between them is like running butter, a slow sticky melting. He's wary of pushing for anything harder -- yet somehow the restraint only whets his appetite, makes him hungrier for what he has and parched for what he can't. Carefully, he maneuvers so they're almost side-by-side, a warm mesh of tangled limbs. Spanning one palm across the small of her back, he keeps her close. The other hand lets warm fingers stray under the waistband of her pants, beneath her blouse, tugging it undone before he drives his palm between cloth and skin, into the soft dark thatch of hair between her legs. Cupping her sex, squeezing gently, he traces the pad of his finger across the moist lips, front to back, before dipping into her. ]

[Korra whimpers and clenches her legs together, trapping his hand between them. While he works her with his fingers, she pulls out one hand to grasp his erection. She doesn't have enough room for long strokes, but she twists it hard.

A spasm runs up her leg, briefly overwhelming pleasure. She pulls back with a little hiss.]

[ She twists his erection in that warm palm, and Hei lets off a raspy strangled noise into their kiss. Heat-lightning is a gathering force in his balls, even as the rest of his body is lax with pleasure. The sound of her whimper still leaps through him; he sinks two fingers into that welling slickness between her thighs. But before he can work her up to a good rhythm, he feels her hiss and edge away, her muscles tightening in a different manner. ]

[ Concerned, he breaks the kiss to draw back. His breaths are a slow humid flutter against her skin. ]

You okay?

I'm fine. [She rubs her sore leg, trying to banish the pain, more than a little annoyed at having their nice time interrupted like this. It's not just the spasm in her leg now, but her hip, complaining about lying on one side for so long. The couch really is too small for these activities.]

But maybe we should take this to the bedroom?

Yeah.

[ Before Cat decides to leap on his back, anyway, nails sharp and meows ear-splitting. ]

[ He gathers her up, carefully, her weight in his arms like the sharp satisfaction of catching something costly mid-fall -- melded with a ruefulness for the days when he could manhandle her with rough freeness, secure in the knowledge of what she could and couldn't take. Hell, he even misses the way she'd try to pick him up, reminding him who was, if not bigger, than definitely just that much stronger. ]

[ He hasn't realized until now he'd liked it. Liked the push-me-pull-you, almost as much as he likes the warm pillow of her lips on his right now, the slow probing of his tongue into her hot little mouth. Rays of dying red sunlight carve through the blinds at the bedroom window. Without breaking the kiss, he spills her across the mattress. Hovers over her, a strange delicate negotiation of his body on hers, pressure without the weight. ]

[ His lips skim her cheek as he murmurs, ]

I'll give you a rubdown, if you want.

[ Something to get her blood flowing, help with the circulation and stiff muscles. Usually a soothing thing, as part of the complex process of her physical therapy -- but that doesn't mean he can't turn it into a game for her to enjoy. ]

[He doesn't miss it nearly as much as she does. She thinks a lot about their previous sex life (in certain moods), and while she would never ever want back the fear and the violence and the way he'd shut down after sex... the sex itself has the hazy glow of nostalgia making it seem better than the present. She can't fuck him half-clothed in closets or elevators here; they don't fight for control in bed. Sex used to be so mind-blowingly intense that she couldn't hold a thought in her brain, but recently she's been just aware enough to feel a little frisson of fear, that she's become stagnant and boring.

She wriggles beneath him, doing her best to destroy her ability to think & worry with sensation. Her kisses to him are hard and desperate; it's almost physically painful when he pulls back.]

Sure. [And while he does, she'll figure out some way to reward him for his patience.]

[ Boring? That's the last word he'd use for her. She's more than just her mobility. She's more than the Avatar or some dreadfully mundane pronoun like Girlfriend or Lover. She's Korra. Her moods come and go in layers of gloomy spells and whirling tantrums and bad hair days and ghostly evenings when she won't eat or talk or sleep. But the essence of her is always buried underneath, a dark chewy center of heat and life. Even at her most despondent, she always gives off a fierce energy that is hot. ]

[ It has nothing to do with the temperature of her surroundings. It is her temperament. A temperament that is endlessly fascinating to someone like Hei. ]

[ He doesn't tell her that. But, wanting to unshackle her from her doubts by simpler sensation, he leans over and kisses her mouth. Draws back and smoothes the fine spray of dark hairs along one tense brow, before getting busy with her clothes. He peels them off carefully: first blouse, then pants, then underwear, before tugging off her hairpieces. Shucks off his own garments, his cock already moist-tipped and aching as the weight of stymied need drops down heavily to his balls. ]

[ Reaching out, he delves into the nightstand. Comes up with a small bottle, almost palm-sized. Hemp oil. He turns the top and pours some into his rough palms. It smells very faintly of fresh-turned earth and grass. After a moment, he pauses, and a faint smile quirks his mouth. ]

Don't fall asleep if I do this.

[She can take her clothes off just fine by herself, thanks, but she's in an indulgent enough mood that she lets him strip her like those early days when she couldn't do anything for herself. Without the haze of grief and resentment, it's easier to see and to accept their silent message: I care.]

Afraid you won't be able to wake me up again? [She nudges him teasingly. She certainly wouldn't mind falling asleep and waking up to his hands on her.]

Maybe.

[ His gaze skates across her body with a lewd, sly fondness. The rest of his face reveals very little, but anyone with a vantage into his inward workings might feel along with him a tightening pull in the gut, a crackling sensation of raw energy, the kind that makes the throat cramp and skin prickle. It's so tempting to forget the preliminaries, to nudge between her thighs and work her over with his tongue, until she's slick and flushed and ready for him to sink into her. ]

[ But some things it's better to take your time with. He's trying different methods with Korra, lately, as if each instance is a sequence in a Rubix cube, little twists and turns until he finds the perfect mechanism to align with both their needs. ]

[ Gently, he lifts her right ankle, so small and warm in his hands, and rubs the oil onto her foot. Then, pouring another dose in his palms, he works it into her calf. Gliding up her leg to the top of her thigh, stopping just where the patch of curls framing her sex begins, then pouring out more and starting down her other leg, working it into her thigh, her knee, her ankle, pressing it along the arch of her foot with his thumb. He can feel where the muscles have melted slightly under the soft skin; the absence of toned strands lapping each other like tight-woven wicker. ]

[ It fills him with a sense of quiet despair. But he shakes it off, dipping his head to press a cool kiss below her left nipple. A gentle bite on her right nipple. Another bite on the underside of her breast, even as his hands continue working her legs, soft pressure circles with the thumbs and slow whorling strokes from hipbone to ankle with the heel of both palms. ]

Edited 2014-09-30 18:01 (UTC)

[Korra leans back and closes her eyes, the better to appreciate his hands. He's systematic, but the darkness still lends his every action an element of surprise that she likes. Her breathing gets a little heavy as he works his way up. She hadn't realized just how tense the muscles in her leg were from her exertions today; the release of it feels almost as good as sex itself. She can feel herself getting wet, but she keeps herself under control, no squirming or whimpering or needy rocking, even if the rest of her body is begging for the attention he's lavishing on her legs.

The sudden feeling of his mouth on her breasts makes Korra yelp and clutch the sheets. She wants to latch onto him; want to grab his hair and direct his attention to every needy place on her body. But she's also a little nostalgic for the way he used to tease her. He'd bring her to the peak then stop, bring her to the peak and stop, driving her half-mad with the thwarted orgasms. And when he did finally let her come...well, she was still surprised that she could walk after that, much less come again while he penetrated her. She whimpers again as she remembers how he feels inside her, and her mind runs through all the various ways and places he's taken her. She wants him to hurry...she wants him to go slowly and torture her...]

[ Slow. He definitely wants to take this slow. Wants her breaths to unravel in that remembered way, jittery and aching, her soft cries playing him like an angel strokes a harp, all smooth glissandos and hot pressurized thrums, eroding his concentration in a way so wickedly sweet that every doubt and bitterness in his gray, shadowed life is briefly swept away on a wave's crest of pure perfect focus. ]

[ She yelps, and his lips twitch against her skin -- a secret not-quite smile. With one hand he makes slow even passes -- stroking in circular motions down her right leg, concentrating on where her muscles feel less like cords than frayed balls of twine under the skin. Meanwhile, he rests the other hand on her mons, his palm against the soft thicket of pubic hair. Just the softest edge of pressure radiating to her clit -- before he slips one finger down and presses against her labia. She's wet. He can feel how wet she is. ]

[ Want pulses through every inch of him. His cock is prodding at his belly like a clock hand. Highnoon; midnight; everything in between. He ignores it, head dipped to work hungrily at her breasts. Tongue swirling across one nipple, then the other, exposing them to the hot wet pressure of his mouth, then the cool air, as he alternates between them over and over, teasing them to hard springy points. ]

[She pretends this is one of the games they'd sometimes play, the rules more often than not unspoken — a challenge to see how long she can maintain her control during his onslaught. She may not be able to manhandle him or flip the tables like she used to, but she can still fight to keep from losing herself completely to pleasure. (The loss then being all the sweeter)

Of course he's not going to make it easy on her. She takes a deep breath and digs her nails into the mattress to keep from grinding against his hand, or demanding that his finger go farther. Her breathes grow ragged with every brush of his tongue; a thrill that's almost painful runs through her every time his hot mouth abandons her skin to the cool air.

Still, while it may not be easy, this is hardly his greatest effort. He'll have to work a little harder before she'll concede defeat.]

[ This isn't effort. He's barely gotten started. ]

[ He lays his lips across the humid space between her breasts, hearing the escalation of her soft, hitched gasps. Smiles lazily, and lets his poised touch proceed further -- a soft kiss on her sternum. Tongue dipping into the little bowl that sits at her collarbones. Three kisses up her throat, lapping at the arc in wet sweeps. Her skin is so soft; he can feel the vein pulsing beneath the delicate curtain of flesh. In his past life, this is the spot he'd mark with a silent X. A dotted line for his blade to sink in as if into hot butter. ]

[ Here, he simply gnaws the skin, right at the sweet-spot that seems connected by a live-wire right to her groin. The pressure on her mons grows heavier. His finger teases apart her lips and presses against her slick little entrance. It slides up the cleft, parting the lips all the way, then brushes lightly -- so lightly -- against her clit. He teases it with soft flicks, once, twice, again, before letting her labia softly fall back together, touching. His hand is gone -- a loss of stimulation to that sensitive part even as he devotes the attention of both palms to long, downward sweeps from both her thighs to the ticklish soles of her feet. Working the pads of each toe with rolling strokes, the methodical care disguising a hint of playfulness. ]

[What was that she said about missing his teasing? Korra lets out a noise of indignant protest as he relocates his hands to her feet. Her feet aren't what need his attention! Her feet have — oooh. Okay. That was one muscle she didn't even realize she had, much less than it was knotted, until he rubbed his loose. It pulls a moan from deep inside her. Still, her legs clench tightly together, trying to provide the missing stimulation.]

[ She moans, her thighs squeezing tight together, and he smiles at those soft urgent signs of life. He's learnt quickly that she manages her pleasure with her legs, releases it with her cries. So he takes even those small measures of control away from her, lifting both her legs by her shins, holding them a foot apart. He kneads the skin slowly, a languid effleurage across the ankle, thumbs circling across the jut of bone. Rubbing the instep, a careful pressure as he leans in, his body a taut arch over hers. He swoops in for a kiss, slow and sloppy, uninhibited, a greedy rhythm of his tongue fucking into her mouth, a non-sequitur of raunch amid the methodical, almost clinical care he's applying to her feet. ]

[ He plans to take this at a sedately random pace. It takes time for the wind to work every dried leaf from an autumn tree. There may be a first deluge of release, but it's a slow stripping after that initial rush, a matter of worrying each scrap free. Because nature's airy fingers are endlessly patient; its attacks are persistent to the last, spontaneous yet thorough. ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject