( an honest smile, one that spreads across his lips like he should be ashamed of it--like it's too warm, too struck with pleasure, and a little funny, all the same; he hadn't thought of that, really, hadn't imagined that palamedes would have any trouble precisely because he would move and help him all the same. but he's willing to indulge him in pretty much anything, really, given that he can't think of anything he would hesitate to do: so he shifts, a little, like he's poised to help, but in the end those tentacles have far more strength than even he had imagined, and it takes very little pursuit on his end to push and tilt and roll onto his back.
his eyes round, fluttered, surprised, amused, wanting: it's a different angle entirely when he's the one on his back and palamedes is above him, and one of his hands lifts, in those few, quiet seconds where they hover together--his fingers push, gently guiding some of palamedes' hair away from his cheek, curving it helplessly around an ear. given the angle, it'll just fall back out again. doesn't matter.
every inch of them coming together again slots some kind of pressure, inside of him: a strange feeling, an embarrassing feeling, like his breath is windswept and patchy, like for all the control that he has over his body, he has no control at all when palamedes' lips come into play. down his jaw, along his neck, further still to where it feels like his pulse is pounding itself free from his skin; it takes a rough swallow to even think to focus on the words. to find bashfulness in them, an embarrassed sound that might have been, originally, some kind of polite disagreement, but comes out more wanting than that: it's not wrong to want palamedes to find him attractive, is it? that feels direly important. )
No limits. ( he says, quiet in his throat; his skin jumps a little, hips tightening, thighs threatening to squeeze together--it's ticklish in that strange way, again, where palamedes' hand drifts down and comes back up again. )
You can do anything. ( repeating, for gentle emphasis--not because he thinks palamedes needs to hear it, but because he wants him to know he means it. ) I like it.
( --like you, he thinks to say, then presses his lips against it, closes it into a sigh of breath instead. )
no subject
his eyes round, fluttered, surprised, amused, wanting: it's a different angle entirely when he's the one on his back and palamedes is above him, and one of his hands lifts, in those few, quiet seconds where they hover together--his fingers push, gently guiding some of palamedes' hair away from his cheek, curving it helplessly around an ear. given the angle, it'll just fall back out again. doesn't matter.
every inch of them coming together again slots some kind of pressure, inside of him: a strange feeling, an embarrassing feeling, like his breath is windswept and patchy, like for all the control that he has over his body, he has no control at all when palamedes' lips come into play. down his jaw, along his neck, further still to where it feels like his pulse is pounding itself free from his skin; it takes a rough swallow to even think to focus on the words. to find bashfulness in them, an embarrassed sound that might have been, originally, some kind of polite disagreement, but comes out more wanting than that: it's not wrong to want palamedes to find him attractive, is it? that feels direly important. )
No limits. ( he says, quiet in his throat; his skin jumps a little, hips tightening, thighs threatening to squeeze together--it's ticklish in that strange way, again, where palamedes' hand drifts down and comes back up again. )
You can do anything. ( repeating, for gentle emphasis--not because he thinks palamedes needs to hear it, but because he wants him to know he means it. ) I like it.
( --like you, he thinks to say, then presses his lips against it, closes it into a sigh of breath instead. )