[ Nothing has changed. Not the way he hauls in a breath, forcing himself into steadiness as she rubs kittenishly against him -- while the press of her groin against his is answered by a growing bulge. Not the way his pulse leaps beneath the skin where she bites down, and he hopes it will leave marks -- pretty crescent-pink divots, the imprint of her teeth visible in his flesh. It's only his right hand that is robbed of its usual fluidity, the bandages making everything clumsy, grasping. ]
[ Teeth gritted, he tries not to think about it. Korra's arms are around his neck, delicious soft-hard swathes, her warm pooched mouth lingering against his, inviting kisses. His left hand skims along the hemline of her blouse, careful not to nudge an injury or bruise. Tugging it up, one-handed, he mouths the heat-damp crook of her neck, and thinks both: I've missed you and I shouldn't be doing this -- but can't say either of those things. ]
[ The kiss breaks only when he wads up her blouse past her head. Her hair fans out, crackling against the collar of the fabric as he lifts it away; flyaway strands cling to his features when he presses in again. Just the touch of his forehead against her shoulder, handsfree so he can impatiently remove his shirt, pulling it free of his shorts and over his head. The clothes are consigned to a wrinkled heap on the vanity. It's laughable to imagine he'd once obsessively folded and hung everything in the middle of preliminaries. The petty concerns of a young man who couldn't appreciate the time on his hands. ]
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Date: 2015-07-12 04:27 am (UTC)[ Teeth gritted, he tries not to think about it. Korra's arms are around his neck, delicious soft-hard swathes, her warm pooched mouth lingering against his, inviting kisses. His left hand skims along the hemline of her blouse, careful not to nudge an injury or bruise. Tugging it up, one-handed, he mouths the heat-damp crook of her neck, and thinks both: I've missed you and I shouldn't be doing this -- but can't say either of those things. ]
[ The kiss breaks only when he wads up her blouse past her head. Her hair fans out, crackling against the collar of the fabric as he lifts it away; flyaway strands cling to his features when he presses in again. Just the touch of his forehead against her shoulder, handsfree so he can impatiently remove his shirt, pulling it free of his shorts and over his head. The clothes are consigned to a wrinkled heap on the vanity. It's laughable to imagine he'd once obsessively folded and hung everything in the middle of preliminaries. The petty concerns of a young man who couldn't appreciate the time on his hands. ]