[ Hei lets her spill back across the bed. Nudges the discarded heap of their clothes with his foot, before kneeling at the edge of the bed. His expression is Sphinxish: half-lidded and intent, no trace of self-consciousness remaining. Trepidation had tamped down his desire. But that's gone now, his skin tingling, a fire ignited beneath the surface by Korra's touch and taste, her helpless wavering words that feel like kisses to his ear. ]
[ For a moment, drawing in slow scoops of air, he regards her, reveling in the smooth hot expanse of dark skin, the sweet lushness of her body, cataloging subtle differences, taking note of the fresh scars littered here and there, as if something hot has tumbled from the sky and scalded her faintly -- her entire body like the stirring pages of an illustrated storybook. All told, it's not a terrible tale. She's seen some action in his absence, but she isn't battle-marked and overwrought from terrible tension piling up everywhere. Nor is she anhedonically thin, the thinness he didn't like, that when she got that way during her illness, he'd started cooking slathers of heavy dishes for her, everything sweet and fatty and fried. ]
[ The surface changes are ignorable. It's her body-language that's different -- inviting, yet so shy, like the kind of bride he'd always imagined, disbelievingly, that men had in a different century, before hemlines had gone from instep to kneecap to thigh to absolute nonexistence. It's hard to tell if the diffidence is something she's acquired during his absence -- or if it's exclusive to him. ]
[ Hei doesn't know. His brain boils, a stew of lust and tenderness. He doesn't force her knees wide. Still holding her hips, he dips instead between her legs to kiss her belly, tonguing her navel, teasing her sensitive inner thighs. ]
[ Mouthing the hard knobble of her hipbone, he meets her gaze across the line of her body, his eyes an unflinching soft blue. ]
Tell me, [ he murmurs. ] If you want me to stop, or slow down. Or whatever. Just tell me.
[ Because the last thing he wants is a repeat of that ugly night in the City -- full of misconstrual and force and destructive flames of impulse. ]
no subject
[ For a moment, drawing in slow scoops of air, he regards her, reveling in the smooth hot expanse of dark skin, the sweet lushness of her body, cataloging subtle differences, taking note of the fresh scars littered here and there, as if something hot has tumbled from the sky and scalded her faintly -- her entire body like the stirring pages of an illustrated storybook. All told, it's not a terrible tale. She's seen some action in his absence, but she isn't battle-marked and overwrought from terrible tension piling up everywhere. Nor is she anhedonically thin, the thinness he didn't like, that when she got that way during her illness, he'd started cooking slathers of heavy dishes for her, everything sweet and fatty and fried. ]
[ The surface changes are ignorable. It's her body-language that's different -- inviting, yet so shy, like the kind of bride he'd always imagined, disbelievingly, that men had in a different century, before hemlines had gone from instep to kneecap to thigh to absolute nonexistence. It's hard to tell if the diffidence is something she's acquired during his absence -- or if it's exclusive to him. ]
[ Hei doesn't know. His brain boils, a stew of lust and tenderness. He doesn't force her knees wide. Still holding her hips, he dips instead between her legs to kiss her belly, tonguing her navel, teasing her sensitive inner thighs. ]
[ Mouthing the hard knobble of her hipbone, he meets her gaze across the line of her body, his eyes an unflinching soft blue. ]
Tell me, [ he murmurs. ] If you want me to stop, or slow down. Or whatever. Just tell me.
[ Because the last thing he wants is a repeat of that ugly night in the City -- full of misconstrual and force and destructive flames of impulse. ]