[ Hei's hips rock in a restless, yet absent sort of way. His free hand is wrapped tight around Korra's so she doesn't withdraw her hand from his erection. The other hand slides a rough palm flat over her hip, brushing the ticklish tuft of hair between her thighs, then slipping between them. His fingers dip low into slick heat, pressing, stroking, circling. But it's clear, from the pressure, much like the way he kisses her again, that there's a calculated agenda behind this. Not affectionate – more strategic. A ceasefire. She asks, What's wrong?, but he doesn't want to answer. Doesn't know how to. He's glad she's here, he's told her so, but he doesn't quite know what he meant by it, or why he said it, only that he feels it, wants it. It's easier to focus on Korra, sprawled beside him on the bedspread that gives off a smell of chemical cleanliness. Easier to will himself not to think. The thing to do is to rush this along, to get to the part that he's both itching for yet irrationally dreading -- the actual fucking -- and then once that's done, he can slow it all down again, and enjoy Korra. ]
[ Not meeting her eyes, he says, ] It's nothing. [ Kisses her again, with a pushier edge, as an unstated I don't want to talk about it. ]
no subject
[ Not meeting her eyes, he says, ] It's nothing. [ Kisses her again, with a pushier edge, as an unstated I don't want to talk about it. ]