( a thought he hadn't spared, really, and maybe that's selfishness in its own right: that he's so determined to find palamedes' skin with his lips, with the soft press of his tongue, like each kiss leaves a mark that only they can see, something delicate and decided only for them--that he hadn't even considered it going the other way around. it's not that he doesn't want it; the thought, by itself, is something that would cause all of his other thoughts to shrivel up and disappear, to make thinking itself something dumb and warmed over by the heat flooded into the pit of his stomach. but there's a little shiver of possessiveness, there, that if he kisses palamedes here, and there, if he finds those tender spots, if he makes his breath pass in that pretty way--that maybe he'll be allowed to do it again, later, and again, tomorrow, and again, days in the future.
still, he's soft-hearted at best, the kind of person that would likely fold against a well-aimed pout, or the soft hush of pleading, and palamedes' voice, with its rush, with its breath intersected for the lick of his lips, draws his gaze up, a warm, wanting sort of look, considering. he can't just leave him there: which means he's stretching his weight up again, abandoning his pursuit around palamedes' navel to move back to his mouth.
a reassuring kiss, there, without prompting: soft, needy, parting palamedes' lips just with the slow shift of his own, for a tongue that wants to taste him, even briefly, to claim that part of him back. )
You can kiss me. ( he says, hushed into the small space he allows, between their lips. ) You can do anything.
( but it does beg the question of anywhere, which is why he smiles, faint and well-kissed, and tilts his head to one side; they're still a little crooked on the bed, and if he wants to go further--lower--then he'll end up sliding off the mattress entirely. his legs bend, a little, a thigh pressed to the mattress, helping slide them a little more properly, a little more straight. )
Roll me over. ( soft, less of a command that it is a suggestion--his mouth dips, a brief kiss, reassuring. ) You can get on top.
no subject
still, he's soft-hearted at best, the kind of person that would likely fold against a well-aimed pout, or the soft hush of pleading, and palamedes' voice, with its rush, with its breath intersected for the lick of his lips, draws his gaze up, a warm, wanting sort of look, considering. he can't just leave him there: which means he's stretching his weight up again, abandoning his pursuit around palamedes' navel to move back to his mouth.
a reassuring kiss, there, without prompting: soft, needy, parting palamedes' lips just with the slow shift of his own, for a tongue that wants to taste him, even briefly, to claim that part of him back. )
You can kiss me. ( he says, hushed into the small space he allows, between their lips. ) You can do anything.
( but it does beg the question of anywhere, which is why he smiles, faint and well-kissed, and tilts his head to one side; they're still a little crooked on the bed, and if he wants to go further--lower--then he'll end up sliding off the mattress entirely. his legs bend, a little, a thigh pressed to the mattress, helping slide them a little more properly, a little more straight. )
Roll me over. ( soft, less of a command that it is a suggestion--his mouth dips, a brief kiss, reassuring. ) You can get on top.