[ Hei isn't sure what to say to her. (Why, he wonders, do they call it 'post' traumatic stress? There is no 'post.' It's an ongoing barrage of ugliness, some of it wrenching you so far out of yourself you'll never reach solid ground again; other bits sucking you so deep into the recesses of memory that it's like you'll never resurface. He can only describe it as a history of all the shit that's happened to him, a snapshot by satellite, like the aerial view of a cyclone on the weather channel. That bluish-red striation there -- that was the time I was attacked in a trench as a twelve-year-old. Those pink highlights? Those are all the times someone I trusted pulled a knife on me.) ]
[ To deflect the swirling images, he seeks Korra's mouth, engages her in kisses to postpone the moment when his hands go into her clothes, when her clothes come off. It's all predictable, and meant to happen; after their reconciliation earlier, barring mishaps, it's a foregone conclusion. But that doesn't explain why everything in his head goes up in fire the colour of tangerines. Korra's mouth always tastes of something citrus and sweet, something that can never fill you up yet leaves you hungry for more. He snatches at that elusive taste, the sensation, to ground himself. ]
no subject
[ To deflect the swirling images, he seeks Korra's mouth, engages her in kisses to postpone the moment when his hands go into her clothes, when her clothes come off. It's all predictable, and meant to happen; after their reconciliation earlier, barring mishaps, it's a foregone conclusion. But that doesn't explain why everything in his head goes up in fire the colour of tangerines. Korra's mouth always tastes of something citrus and sweet, something that can never fill you up yet leaves you hungry for more. He snatches at that elusive taste, the sensation, to ground himself. ]
[ When their mouths break, he murmurs, ]
Stop me -- if I try to go.