( he can't imagine a situation where talking wouldn't be allowed, when it comes to palamedes--he's used to being quiet, used to fading out into the background, observant, silent, letting those with the tongue for talking expend their energy as much as they like. with palamedes, though, there's comfort that he finds, in the sound of his voice: like he wouldn't much mind it if they just laid out on his bed for hours, listening to him explain the intricacies of whatever scientific marvel might have enticed him, here, because that seems like the kind of person he is; constantly curious, constantly pursuing, constantly learning. in such a short amount of time, he's come to appreciate it, even admire it, in him: something like what he wants to be, a person that's always looking for new things to try, to learn, to internalize.
but the thought of talking, during something like this--that only seems to worsen the flicker of heat in his face, a prickle of red that looks stark against his pale skin; he likes listening to palamedes' voice, and can only imagine the sort of wreck he would become if he paused their kissing, their touching, for something melted off his tongue, intimate and quiet.
it makes the distraction of touch both willing and welcome--it gives him something to focus on, besides the warm tingle of palamedes' mouth on his, besides the way that his hips slide as though to smother palamedes fully beneath him on the mattress; the silent question builds into a silent request, on his end, and gently, reluctantly, he draws himself back so that he can dig an elbow into the mattress and, one-handed, start to pull the sweatshirt off with his grip at the collar. that's what he wanted, right? a little proud of himself, he adjusts his weight again to get the thing off and flung towards the pillows on the bed; then it's his hips, his bare chest, pushing palamedes into the bed, laying out on him like he'll keep any part of him from view.
it doesn't bother him, like this: he's had his clothes torn apart in battle more than once, and his pale skin, knitted and healed over by technique, remembers little of its past scars; it's a smooth surface, raised only by muscle--and he realizes, too late, that in his attraction-blown insistency, he's forgotten entirely about the patterned vines on his skin, marked up to his shoulders. too late to grab the sweatshirt again, so he simply presses his mouth to palamedes' mouth, hoping that kissing will be more of a distraction; it's certainly more of a distraction for him, deciding to keep one arm bent on the mattress so that the other can dip between them, squeezing and groping for palamedes' waist in earnest. )
no subject
but the thought of talking, during something like this--that only seems to worsen the flicker of heat in his face, a prickle of red that looks stark against his pale skin; he likes listening to palamedes' voice, and can only imagine the sort of wreck he would become if he paused their kissing, their touching, for something melted off his tongue, intimate and quiet.
it makes the distraction of touch both willing and welcome--it gives him something to focus on, besides the warm tingle of palamedes' mouth on his, besides the way that his hips slide as though to smother palamedes fully beneath him on the mattress; the silent question builds into a silent request, on his end, and gently, reluctantly, he draws himself back so that he can dig an elbow into the mattress and, one-handed, start to pull the sweatshirt off with his grip at the collar. that's what he wanted, right? a little proud of himself, he adjusts his weight again to get the thing off and flung towards the pillows on the bed; then it's his hips, his bare chest, pushing palamedes into the bed, laying out on him like he'll keep any part of him from view.
it doesn't bother him, like this: he's had his clothes torn apart in battle more than once, and his pale skin, knitted and healed over by technique, remembers little of its past scars; it's a smooth surface, raised only by muscle--and he realizes, too late, that in his attraction-blown insistency, he's forgotten entirely about the patterned vines on his skin, marked up to his shoulders. too late to grab the sweatshirt again, so he simply presses his mouth to palamedes' mouth, hoping that kissing will be more of a distraction; it's certainly more of a distraction for him, deciding to keep one arm bent on the mattress so that the other can dip between them, squeezing and groping for palamedes' waist in earnest. )