[ It's not Chekov's face Hei's thinking of. His mind always functions on a multiplicity of levels. Even now, as the sensations swell like a song's chorus, everything in the room blurring to white-noise, part of him is flicking through all the ways he knows how to say This Blade Is Rusty in half a dozen different languages. His breath hitches, the rhythm of his hips stuttering for a second because he -- He's not coming, but it's only a matter of time. She's so fucking tight and wet around him, and he can't help the sharp groan that vibrates up his throat, lips hot at her neck. Almost every breath is shorter, deeper. More frantic. With each successive burst of pleasurepain -- Korra's teeth biting his shoulder, her nails tearing hot lines across his back, red spots blooming behind his eyes as she yanks his hair -- it's like she's scything away another steely layer of his self-control. ]
[ But he doesn't stop. Doesn't crumble. Growling, he snatches her hand. Kisses her, and kisses her, harsh and biting and greedy, rolling his hips against that good spot inside her, his hand gripping her wrist, pinning it above her head, while his other hand stays between her legs. No longer stroking her clit; instead it's a sudden sharp pinching, the kind that makes anyone spasm, scream, shake. ]
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[ But he doesn't stop. Doesn't crumble. Growling, he snatches her hand. Kisses her, and kisses her, harsh and biting and greedy, rolling his hips against that good spot inside her, his hand gripping her wrist, pinning it above her head, while his other hand stays between her legs. No longer stroking her clit; instead it's a sudden sharp pinching, the kind that makes anyone spasm, scream, shake. ]