[ There will always be a strangeness to living with BK201: he can be scarily perceptive at times, or touchingly thoughtful. But he is also, as Korra is agonizingly aware of, obtuse, silent, morose, and inconsiderate. But Hei finds those episodes of his own faulty boyfriendliness more reassuring than off-putting. Strip away his masks, and he is a flawed, miserable man, not a prince charming. But living with Korra ensures that he'll never relapse into a monster. ]
[ With her thighs curled around his knee, he gets the message. Rocks the joint slowly against her, the bone as hard as shell against that vulnerable softness, a whispering friction of fabric on fabric, while his breath escapes in a gust, the kisses growing hotter, more insistent. It's like igniting a shimmering charge: Korra's need broils through his own veins in a galvanizing, all-consuming, full-barrel rush. ]
[ Fuck -- why had he been denying himself? Denying her? It is idiotic. And, not for the first time lately, he has to acknowledge that when he goes to long without the restorative mojo of their fuckings, a healing physicality, his senses bend themselves out of joint. It has been more or less this bad for the last several months. Nature's way of telling him something, but he'd been so pathetically slow to pick up on the message. ]
[ Then she's caught his wrists, dragging his hands to her chest. Hei's breath hitches in his throat: excitement, want. But his hands are gentle as they explore her clothed breasts. They've plumped shockingly, deliciously, but the nipples feel tight and tender, even through the layers of cloth. He kneads them carefully, thumb rubbing across the pooched tips. Breaks the kiss, but only to marshal his catapulting thoughts, to get a grip on the wildly-flickering shape of his hunger, which began as a tiny spark fed by tinder, and has transposed into a quiet supernova. ]
[ Nuzzling her neck, he kisses the flush creeping across it. His words are a rasping slur against her pulsepoint. ]
We should take this somewhere else.
[ The bedroom, for instance. Or the couch. Or a fucking carpeted floor. (As he shifts, the better to gather her closer, his boot nudges against the bag in a crinkling rustle. What, he wonders, is in there?) ]
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Date: 2015-03-03 10:28 pm (UTC)[ With her thighs curled around his knee, he gets the message. Rocks the joint slowly against her, the bone as hard as shell against that vulnerable softness, a whispering friction of fabric on fabric, while his breath escapes in a gust, the kisses growing hotter, more insistent. It's like igniting a shimmering charge: Korra's need broils through his own veins in a galvanizing, all-consuming, full-barrel rush. ]
[ Fuck -- why had he been denying himself? Denying her? It is idiotic. And, not for the first time lately, he has to acknowledge that when he goes to long without the restorative mojo of their fuckings, a healing physicality, his senses bend themselves out of joint. It has been more or less this bad for the last several months. Nature's way of telling him something, but he'd been so pathetically slow to pick up on the message. ]
[ Then she's caught his wrists, dragging his hands to her chest. Hei's breath hitches in his throat: excitement, want. But his hands are gentle as they explore her clothed breasts. They've plumped shockingly, deliciously, but the nipples feel tight and tender, even through the layers of cloth. He kneads them carefully, thumb rubbing across the pooched tips. Breaks the kiss, but only to marshal his catapulting thoughts, to get a grip on the wildly-flickering shape of his hunger, which began as a tiny spark fed by tinder, and has transposed into a quiet supernova. ]
[ Nuzzling her neck, he kisses the flush creeping across it. His words are a rasping slur against her pulsepoint. ]
We should take this somewhere else.
[ The bedroom, for instance. Or the couch. Or a fucking carpeted floor. (As he shifts, the better to gather her closer, his boot nudges against the bag in a crinkling rustle. What, he wonders, is in there?) ]