[ Hei lets her tackle the buttons. When the shirt gapes, he shrugs it off and lets it fall to the floor. Echoes of the familiar weave with the strange -- her usual girlish banter, the spicysweet impatience vibrating off her, and his own dry-mouthed anxiety. His expression is calm but inside his nerves are chewing themselves to pieces. ]
[ Soft hair brushes against the underside of his chin and jaw; when she kisses her way down his chest, he sucks in his breath, fighting to keep from grabbing Korra with the bruising bite of his desire. It's true, he hasn't changed much in his year on the Enterprise. His body has just fleshed out a few degrees: thicker striations across the chest and marbling on the delts, lats flaring in a noticeable cobra's hood. There was so little to do on the ship -- he'd either spent his time swimming or pounding through newly-learnt katas in the gym until every joint rolled smooth in its socket -- at least when he wasn't poring over the shimmering multi-dimensional charts of the universe with Chekov, or stewing in a corner at the bridge, part uneasy guest, part dangerous prisoner, the entire atmosphere like a noisy grinding machine gnawing at his nerves, until Spock would stiltedly ask if he wanted to play kal-toh. ]
[ The memory nearly uncurls a smile from him now. He drops his hands, fingers furling around Korra's wrists, re-directing her efforts away from the catch of his trousers. He kisses her palms, one then the other, exploring the fingers that are still like peachy quinquefoliate petals, but that have also evolved into unpretentious weapons, smooth and slender, but toughened by years of use, delicately callused. ]
[ He lets them go, with a lingering kiss on their fingertips. Drops his own hands to disclose himself, shedding his jeans, the belt buckle clanking on the floor, and stepping out of them to circle her close, letting her feel the sharp outline of his cock in the boxers. His fingers -- his whole body -- feel so cold. Hellish cold, as if the time in space has turned his inner temperature wonky. He's half certain she'll cry out in pain if he touches her -- but he can't bear to wrench away. ]
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Date: 2014-12-08 01:52 am (UTC)[ Soft hair brushes against the underside of his chin and jaw; when she kisses her way down his chest, he sucks in his breath, fighting to keep from grabbing Korra with the bruising bite of his desire. It's true, he hasn't changed much in his year on the Enterprise. His body has just fleshed out a few degrees: thicker striations across the chest and marbling on the delts, lats flaring in a noticeable cobra's hood. There was so little to do on the ship -- he'd either spent his time swimming or pounding through newly-learnt katas in the gym until every joint rolled smooth in its socket -- at least when he wasn't poring over the shimmering multi-dimensional charts of the universe with Chekov, or stewing in a corner at the bridge, part uneasy guest, part dangerous prisoner, the entire atmosphere like a noisy grinding machine gnawing at his nerves, until Spock would stiltedly ask if he wanted to play kal-toh. ]
[ The memory nearly uncurls a smile from him now. He drops his hands, fingers furling around Korra's wrists, re-directing her efforts away from the catch of his trousers. He kisses her palms, one then the other, exploring the fingers that are still like peachy quinquefoliate petals, but that have also evolved into unpretentious weapons, smooth and slender, but toughened by years of use, delicately callused. ]
[ He lets them go, with a lingering kiss on their fingertips. Drops his own hands to disclose himself, shedding his jeans, the belt buckle clanking on the floor, and stepping out of them to circle her close, letting her feel the sharp outline of his cock in the boxers. His fingers -- his whole body -- feel so cold. Hellish cold, as if the time in space has turned his inner temperature wonky. He's half certain she'll cry out in pain if he touches her -- but he can't bear to wrench away. ]