[ What are you thinking? It's what the lover in the books, in the movies, always asks. Gazing down at the dreamy blue horizon of her eyes, Hei tries to summon a convincing half-smile. A non-verbal Nothing. How to tell her, everything his memory conjures, just from the sight of her spread across his bed. He half-wishes he could go, be alone for a while to get his equilibrium back. But he can't stand the idea of being parted from Korra. Too hungry for the deliciousness of her -- even as he understands how stupid he's being. Not merely short-sighted and selfish -- but delusional. ]
[ Because having her near makes him wish everything was different. Makes his mind blur into a twilight world of fabrications, elaborate self-deceptions -- What-Ifs. Somedays. Maybes. He, who has always been someone who believed in facing facts, dealing with reality. Who could weave lies in glittering webs, but who hated being tricked or lied to or hoodwinked. Who believed in accepting the truth, no matter how ugly or devastating. ]
[ He isn't sure when that changed. ]
[ Turning his head, he nuzzles the palm of her hand. His words are salted with dryness, but lightly. ]
Trying not to think.
[ His body melds closer to hers, suspended only by the wedged thigh he has pinned her with. His cock hiccoughs with interest against her abdomen; he stirs his hips in a giving grind as he dips his head, lapping upwards to her neck to where her pulse leaps in that familiar thrum beneath the skin. ]
[ Scraping his teeth across supple veins and tendons, he lavishes himself on her throat, breathing in prompt inquiry, ]
Nice? Or nasty?
[ Although he's perfectly amenable to anything in between. ]
no subject
[ Because having her near makes him wish everything was different. Makes his mind blur into a twilight world of fabrications, elaborate self-deceptions -- What-Ifs. Somedays. Maybes. He, who has always been someone who believed in facing facts, dealing with reality. Who could weave lies in glittering webs, but who hated being tricked or lied to or hoodwinked. Who believed in accepting the truth, no matter how ugly or devastating. ]
[ He isn't sure when that changed. ]
[ Turning his head, he nuzzles the palm of her hand. His words are salted with dryness, but lightly. ]
Trying not to think.
[ His body melds closer to hers, suspended only by the wedged thigh he has pinned her with. His cock hiccoughs with interest against her abdomen; he stirs his hips in a giving grind as he dips his head, lapping upwards to her neck to where her pulse leaps in that familiar thrum beneath the skin. ]
[ Scraping his teeth across supple veins and tendons, he lavishes himself on her throat, breathing in prompt inquiry, ]
Nice? Or nasty?
[ Although he's perfectly amenable to anything in between. ]