[Maybe they could just spend a while like this, in idle comfort; perhaps they will soon, can crawl back into his bed and forget about the rest of the city and the world for a while again, just be... slow, unlike the rest of this place. A corner of Palamedes' brain feels like it's slightly on fire, the way his changed arm processes touch unlike anything he's used to- Choso's hair feels different, new, and his train of thought runs away with the rest; how different would Choso's skin feel, will he let him touch him, and for how long? He'd already mentioned holding his 'hand,' so—
Well, there's so much to think about. The rapid-fire questions about his own new arm run rampant into the simple pleasure of being held like this; the psychometry diverts from both, can maybe clear his head for a moment or two.
And he would like to know. From what little he's picked up from what Choso doesn't say, he could take a guess; but no matter the answer he would like to know, the same way it felt necessary that Choso know about his necromancy. More important than the answer is the element of trust, of connection; outside of an academic context it is a rather intimate and personal thing to know about a person.]
Age, yes. I won't suddenly have visions of all your memories, or anything like that, but I'll know your personal energy signature. Maybe a bit about your insides, that kind of thing; it's actually not dissimilar to an... x-ray, with a bonus. You won't feel it.
[He only needs a second; they're already touching. He turns his head- barely, in this configuration- to press nose and mouth into Choso's hair, affectionate.]
( age, then. a personal energy signature. likely something along the lines of sensing someone's cursed energy, except different, because it is different--he doesn't have a problem with any of that. his insides, which aren't really his insides: this body, which is only his body in the sense that he's made it his body, in the sense that he had been stronger than the original owner, who had been forced to ingest him. a body that's now changed to fit his sense of himself, rather than anything else. maybe he would have truly looked like this, in life, if he had truly lived at all; but for someone like palamedes, maybe he won't mind the inherent circle of death that surrounds him, even while he's technically alive.
one hundred and fifty years trapped as a cursed object, speaking only to his brothers, trapped alongside him; only a few months, maybe half a year, incarnated like this, but still not fully human.
if he can taste the cursed energy inside of him, he'll explain it. if he can tell anything else about him--a stillborn child, an experimented child, a child that had three parents, a child that should have never existed--he'll tell him as much as he knows. palamedes wouldn't be the first to hear of it; but he would be the first person here, and even gojou satoru doesn't know the whole truth of it, and likely doesn't want to. he had been dismissed, at first, as a curse needing exorcism, even here: luckily, that had changed before either of them had engaged in a fight.
he can feel palamedes' mouth, brushed against his hair, and wishes he could kiss him; that's a strange thought, new, warm and a little melancholy. )
Alright. ( an easy agreement, calm and trusting--he doesn't know what palamedes needs, so he only pulls back enough to look at him, to bat tired, rimmed eyes at him, to stay, passive, with his arms around him, holding him close.
patient, as he waits for what might be a terrible thing, or a wonderful thing. funny that this is what he had hoped to have his two brothers avoid: he hadn't wanted them to be judged by humans, and now here he is, submitting himself in their stead. that makes him feel, at least, a little better. he's doing things right this time. )
[Oh, and he could have stayed where he was, the loss of that particular bit of warmth a bit unfortunate; Palamedes' own fault for not specifying that he doesn't need to do anything in particular, outwardly. There aren't incantations to chant or gestures to make, just skin on skin, and the rest is behind the curtain, as it were. There's no visible clue that he's doing anything at all— which is half the reason he prefers to ask first.
Psychometry never gives the full story, only the end- and an ending is so much clearer on a body that's died, the thanergetic bloom of death laying a blanket of trace energy that lasts for years and years and years. Items smeared with thanergy are easy to read, will open at the cracks and let out their unseen secrets for him with a little push. The living are harder, but not impossible; he would know if Camilla had passed through a room by the objects that she'd touched.
Still, it's an imperfect thing, and further under the haze thrown over the full scope of his necromancy, and the difference in worlds. Age, simple enough— multiple ages, which for a moment he assumes is the Natural Soul's influence, but- no.
Huh.
Choso's full past he can't see; only this thing about his age, and his insides, and the vague squirming presence of the Natural Soul- left alone, because he's already learned his lesson about that one. All of that and what he can only think of as a strangeness, the energy he doesn't recognize, like a blind spot; he can stare right at it and see nothing at all but the absence of a thing, here in the psychometric context. Thanergy, no, thalergy, absolutely not— closer to the former, maybe, if he had to guess.
He'll ask. But first he says,] Thank you. [For letting him do it, trusting him to do it. With a tilt of his head he presses a kiss to Choso's forehead, like a punctuation mark; he's finished doing the invisible magic, now.]
Can I ask about the... mystery energy? I've never seen anything like it.
( it really is just--over, quickly, more quickly than he thought. a kiss to his forehead, which stuns him out of his waiting; a few slow blinks, as though realizing that nothing, at all, has changed. is it terrible to think of it as a relief? his arms loosen, just slightly, but mostly to keep from letting them get too worked up from the tension.
it takes a moment to process, despite all the overthinking--a small, narrowed dent of his brows. )
Mystery energy... Ah. ( a little sheepish, but he can't cover his face with his hand, rub over the bridge of his nose, or do much of anything to expend the slightly nervous trickle that starts down his spine, like he wants to fidget away from the question. )
Cursed energy. ( said slowly, but not as though he thinks palamedes won't understand--more like he's trying himself, on his end, to figure out how to explain it. ) It's a kind of spiritual energy. I imagine... Well, energy is not a foreign concept to you, or necromancy in general, as you've said. Cursed energy comes from...humans. Fear, worry, grief, anger, hatred, envy...Human emotions, which create cursed energy, which creates, if there's a significant amount of it...curses.
Sorcerers exorcise curses, as they haunt and harm humans, and human society. Sorcerers use cursed energy like a weapon, to fuel their attacks, their special techniques, their swords and blades...That sort of thing.
( his gaze swims, somewhere over palamedes' shoulder, to focus on a point further in the room; he's trying to figure out a prettier way to say it, but there's never been a pretty way to begin with. )
I'm not human. Not fully. I'm not a sorcerer, either. A curse, but not fully that, either. ( gaze narrowing, like a wince. ) A complication, maybe. It takes...some explaining.
[Well, the phrase alone, cursed energy, explains why Choso had asked him to un-read if he didn't like what he found. Palamedes can only halfway understand living under the shadow of base human fear; necromancers are the enemy everywhere except their own Nine Houses, but for the majority of his life he hadn't had to actually go out and understand that face-to-face. Cursed energy, being a curse in whatever way that means, is beyond his scope.
He nods anyway; at least academically, he's following the concept of cursed energy.]
Thanergy is like that, sticking around in greater quantities when strong emotions are involved, usually negative. Not quite the same.
[And the necromancers use it, although perhaps not as creatively as swords and blades, considering the cavalier. Not important.
Three of his tentacles are still curled into Choso's hair; he slides a fourth over Choso's shoulder, tracing along his jaw, not quite urging him to look Palamedes in the face again. Just a touch, anchoring, as the tension zigzagging through Choso is hard to miss when they're this close. He's still listening; he's not letting go.]
I wondered if that's what it was, when you asked me about attributes earlier. The human part, of course. [Not this brand new curse thing, specifically.] Do you want to explain?
[Even if he doesn't- Palamedes would consider this wildly fair and reasonable- now they should sit; Palamedes tilts his head towards the bed, significantly. Yes?]
( it's something interesting to comprehend: to think that in another world, that negative energy could maybe be utilized differently; could sorcerers someday evolve like that? the eradication of the human race, while perhaps the goal of some sorcerers, some curse users, isn't exactly feasible, at least not in his eyes, so there needs to be something else: some other way, something that works on both ends, something that doesn't create an imbalance. that thought is useless, here, where there's nothing he can do anyway--except keep thinking that he should have found a better way to blend in.
tethered by palamedes' touch, he thinks about apologizing. three tentacles nestled in his hair get flanked by a fourth, which slips over his shoulder, soft and nearly unnoticed; once it rolls along his jaw, the faintest pressure, he realizes that he's still not making eye contact.
briefly, embarrassed, he looks up--his lips jut out, something of a pout, which might be charming in any other situation; his arms loosen, slip away, but it's only so that he can lift a hand to run his fingertips down along that particular tentacle, tracing it until he can't. )
Is it better if I don't? ( he asks it, genuinely: there's a moment where he allows himself to move forward, to artfully sidestep a neat pile of books, to ease towards the bed, but his hand reaches out for palamedes, first, like he's the guide that's just clearing a path for him, instead. once he's got palamedes seated on the bed, only then will he sink down next to him. )
It doesn't bother me, really. It only bothers me if it...bothers you. ( a slow, careful way to say whatever this is, i would hate to ruin it. )
[It's not not charming, the pout— but it's overridden by the distraction of touch ghosting over that tentacle, setting that newly-aware, different part of his senses alight again. The tentacles in Choso's hair curl tighter before withdrawing, trailing after him as they make the brief trek to the bed.
Seated, Palamedes turns to draw one leg up on the bed, facing Choso with his chin resting on his knee. He reaches out with the tentacle again, curling around Choso's wrist, snug and secure.]
It doesn't bother me. Truth over solace, which is to say, I would rather know than turn away. Technically the "solace" refers to lies, but...
[He holds up his hand, stopping himself. No, not the time.]
( the touch has his gaze dropping, but not out of concern--more to let his other hand lift, to adjust himself so that they're sitting more facing each other, than hip to hip; one of his legs bends onto the mattress to allow them space, and his free hand, untethered, moves so that he can gently, methodically, stroke down the length of one particular tentacle--and then the next, acclimating himself just as much as palamedes. there's something soothing about it: being able to touch him in a way that likely no one else has, yet, a secret little way that's just theirs, for now. something repetitive, easy, gentle.
his head tilts, slightly, watching his own touch wander. ) Truth over lies? Mmm. Truth over lies.
( or 'lying by omission' maybe, something that he's learned all the same. )
It...There was a woman, a long time ago. Over a hundred years ago, who somehow gave birth to a strange child. Part curse, part human child. That's not something that's supposed to happen, and I think she...must have been terrified, and took the child to a temple, where sorcerers gathered. Likely asking for help, or for...some kind of support.
This...sorcerer. ( the word comes out harsh, tinged with the edge of anger; his hand stills. ) ...forced her to become his property, and carried out a series of experiments. Nine children, he forced her to bear, terminating them at a different point, a different month, each time. A mix of his sorcerer blood, her human blood, and...a curse. Children with...mm, children who became cursed objects, in their death. Full of cursed energy. Alive, but not alive. Aware, but not aware.
These...objects. ( him. his siblings. one hundred and fifty years, just like that. ) ...were stored, protected, at the sorcery school. But cursed objects are...quite powerful, especially when incarnated. A curse user, someone against sorcerers, took these...cursed wombs, from the school.
( a soft swallow, like he doesn't like the feeling--can feel all of his calm, all of his careful explaining welling up in his throat. ) And I am one of them. They incarnated me, and two of my younger brothers, into new flesh bodies. Part human, part curse. That is the...That is how I came to be.
[It's a challenge almost immediately to hold still, when Choso touches him like that. The only thing he wants to do is curl up around Choso's fingers, but he holds back save for the one already around Choso's wrist- wrapping an extra ring around and then going loose again, slipping up under his sleeve.
Just a bit; just curious. The rest is listening, brow knit in silent dread as the story gets, well, worse and worse. Eight siblings—nine children. Somehow becoming objects- a function of this sorcery?- as if the fate of that poor woman and nine dead children wasn't grim enough for one story. Palamedes knows death, of course, but until recently he has been largely sheltered from cruelty, except in the conceptual; distant, war machine cruelty, impersonal cruelty.
This is a personal cruelty. He thinks, if he could meet this sorcerer, that he would squeeze his heart until it burst. No wonder Choso has leaned into bubbles and board games and playgrounds - what else could there be, besides some yawning chasm of despair?
He shakes his head.]
You really are an excellent big brother. I'm sorry— you and your family deserved better.
[He wants to ask what happened to the others, the ones that weren't incarnated, but if there even is an answer to that, it might just be too much cruelty to listen to at once. Instead, because he thinks it bears saying properly,]
I'm grateful, you know, that you told me. It's devastating in ways I didn't think possible. Still, knowing that about you, my feelings haven't changed.
[So no un-reading, no pretending to forget. He reaches out to cup Choso's cheek in his hand. It's so much to share at once, despite Choso's little asides that sharing it doesn't bother him. It sounds like it does, so-]
( there's a faint shake of his head--not that he isn't alright, not that he isn't able to endure this kind of thing, this kind of truth. but more that as much as he tries, as much as he wants to be, he still has so much to atone for; he still has a long way to go to being the sort of big brother that he's always wanted to be, and even such gentle, kind praise feels like it's something he should refute, something he shouldn't receive.
that faint touch, the cup of palamedes' human hand, does make his gaze lift again to look at him; he considers it for a moment, as though trying to decide carefully what to say. )
...It isn't a problem, for me. The truth of the matter is something that I've known for a long time, longer than the rest of them. And I can be strong for the rest of them. I'm honored to be their brother. It's more...
( his fingertips brush, carefully, over one tapered end of one tentacle--gently tracing over one of the suckers there, idly, like it still brings him some measure of comfort. )
...I worry that you, of all people, would want someone human...beside them. And I don't know if I've earned that. I don't know if I've learned enough, to be human.
( his eyes close, briefly, a rueful sort of half-smile, a little twisted; when his eyes open again, it's to look down at the small space between them. )
It's a little ridiculous. I don't know where my head is. You make it...When I'm around you, it feels... like I'm not thinking with my head. ( the breath that escapes sounds near a laugh. ) Is that normal?
[It sounds like there's a step or two missing, Palamedes thinks, between knowing one's part in this story and being strong for the rest. It doesn't sit entirely right with him, but if Choso insists it isn't a problem, then alright - he'll trust in that. Someone ought to give Choso some grace, even if it's in something as simple as not needling him about his past right this second.
So, alright. That can be what it is. He says,] Oh, [to the other thing, and does take a few seconds to think about it, if only because he'd never had to consider anyone's humanity in a literal sense before.
The answer is still the same. He hums, catching Choso's finger with that tentacle and wrapping around his hand with a slight squeeze.
With a one-shoulder shrug,] It isn't not normal. Feelings are complicated. So are people.
[It's a very human thing, isn't it, to not know where one's head is. He brushes his thumb over Choso's cheekbone before dropping his hand away, reaching for Choso's other, less occupied one, to hold in turn.]
Do you want to be more human? Apart from the rest. You already have me, and I don't want to be beside you any less than I did, what, an hour ago? You're more than your... human percentage. "Someone human" is a checklist— I prefer you.
[The question stands, though, with an inquiring tilt of his head: does Choso want to be more human, actively, for himself? Palamedes is committed either way, in the end.]
( human percentage--it makes him want to laugh, a little, a concept he's never thought of, but that's essentially what it comes down to, isn't it? what percentage of himself will he accept, or will others accept, or does it matter? when it comes down to it, he chose to live one way, once: and he wants to choose to live another way, this time, in honor of everything that he messed up. that thought, that determination, doesn't change, no matter how much he might think he's not allowed.
so there's a considering tilt of his head, a soft shake of it, loose hair brushed against his face. )
I'd like to be able to be. I'd like to learn. I'd like to try living like a human, more, instead of...instead of other things.
( but that doesn't necessarily translate to everything else--and living like a human, being a human, doesn't necessarily mean he's entitled to things that he might want, anyway. conflating the ideas together doesn't feel right; palamedes is kind, and has been a kind friend--or whatever the word might be, there, some hazy in-between--but that doesn't necessarily mean that he feels that same fuzzy-headed heat.
politely, reluctantly, he lets both hands rest in his lap: the heat from the tentacles, wrapped around him, feels comforting still, and he doesn't want to break away entirely. better to stay here, until he's encouraged not to. )
...In any case, I took up a lot of your time. You were worrying about your own changes, and I don't think I've made anything better. I'm sorry.
[Alright, an answer, which can be a process, which can be a goal. Palamedes nods; he's not so presumptuous as to insert himself into that process as, like, the foremost expert on the human experience, but he would like to... be there, as it were. To offer support in whatever way he can, if it weren't already obvious.
Which he has to wonder if it isn't, actually, after this other thing. He shakes his head, shifting to put his knee down and out of the way to draw Choso in closer- one of the newly acquired benefits of having so many arms, he doesn't even have to let go of his hands before he runs out of tentacles.]
You don't think so? You listened. You came. [That on its own means a lot to Palamedes, the simple fact that he would try so readily to make him feel better. Maybe coming to the room had been for other reasons, true, but walking in the door and picking Palamedes right up off the floor to hug him is also not insignificant.]
I like being with you, I want you to take up my time. You can have more of it, if you want. [Anytime, like he'd said; not an exaggeration.] Don't you—
[—also want that? Not in the literal, attached-at-the-hip kind of way, so impractical; but in the metaphorical, swimmy, feelings kind of way.]
( it's the only moment that he's considered where all these extra limbs may be a problem, because now palamedes has so many opportunities to keep him tethered, and while he doesn't mind it on principle--doesn't mind it, either, when he's thinking of it in other ways, less polite ways, ways that he shouldn't encourage with his thoughts--it does mean that it's much harder for him to close up like a clam in its shell. it means that his shoulders slide forward, a little clumsy, and one of his hands lands on palamedes' thigh, keeping himself from sliding just too close, or abruptly into his lap.
there's a soft chuckle, fond and wryly amused, under his breath--but it feels like he might just sink himself into his sweatshirt and melt away, at the words. harder to do it when he's not in his robes, with all the extra material to sink inside: all he can do here is purse his lips and angle his gaze down.
he considers the question, thoroughly serious, and his mouth opens--then closes, a slow sigh of breath. )
I want... I want you. No, that-- ( his eyes narrow, staring down at where his hand is squeezing around palamedes' thigh, and loosens his grip. ) --is what I mean, but that is not. ...Gentleman...ly.
( so he tries again, slowly. ) I like all of it, too. I want more of it. I just don't...Mmnn, I don't know if... Does it also feel like that, when you're around...me? Like it's... All warm, like your head isn't on right, like...wanting...like that.
( his eyes narrow, lidded and rimmed with their usual exhaustion; but he does, at least, look back up at palamedes, because this deserves his calm intent, his patient observation. )
[In due time Palamedes may learn to be less clingy with his tentacles - but also possibly not at all, not unless Choso tells him it's a real problem. He was like this even before the arm and before the Augmenter, so it's hard to say how much of his urge to touch and to hold on is the Natural Soul's push or his own habit, but having all the spare limbs has made it so much easier all of a sudden.
Perhaps he could pull less, he thinks, although he isn't upset when Choso slips forward, grips his thigh. He could have pitched all the way forward and knocked them both over, with all the leeway Palamedes is willing to give him; this, and the return of gentlemanly, is its own kind of charming. The kind of charming that nonetheless sets his chest fluttering, earning a small but warm smile. Palamedes is a sucker for an endearing vulnerability, which is this in spades; add in the electric sizzle that goes through him at hearing 'I want you,' and he's just gone.
Insistently, he says,] Yes. I like the feeling.
[He likes to be a little flustered, which feels like a key aspect. The surprised lurch of being lifted off the floor and the comfort of being held anyway, that contradiction; exploring a new thing and wanting more of it, all the time. Looking at Choso and studying the way he moves his hands and the shape of his mouth— yes, it's good.]
I do want you, too, you know. Gentlemanly and otherwise. Being around you is... [he considers, lips pursed, then nods,] warm, like you said. So warm that I don't even care if my head is on upside down or backwards.
[Aha. Slightly sheepish,] That is to say, it's nice. Even when it's overwhelming.
( he wants to take it in the way that he takes in most things: earnestly, silently, letting the words wash over him to sink in deeper, committed to memory. but there's something so strange about the way his body seems to react, hearing all those words; it feels like his stomach flips, lifts and plummets back down again, and his lips curl up towards a smile before he can even realize it himself. there's relief there, too, sinking through him, because if palamedes feels the same, then this isn't some kind of odd reaction to their souls, or something else that this place has forced upon them, is it? this is just something usual, something human, something that can be wanted and desired without it being taken all wrong.
and that feels good. that feels like it makes it even more special, because it's genuine--because it's permitted, because he isn't troubling palamedes, or burdening him with something strange.
the warm tilt of his mouth edges just slightly, just the faintest, tiniest little hint of smug pleasure: that the person he wants to be close to, like this, also wants to be close to him. it gives him a little more confidence, at least, to feel comfortable in the situation; it means that his hand lifts, wraps itself instead up along palamedes' waist, smoothing his fingers out to his back to use him as a tether to lean himself even closer. )
When is it overwhelming? ( this, he feels, is the right thread to tug on: palamedes left him so many, but this one feels particularly--good, like he might be able to tell where it's going to go. )
...When we kissed. Was it overwhelming? ( the warm way his gaze flickers over palamedes' features is both appreciative and wanting; maybe he's hoping for an answer that he likes. and there it is, that calm, matter-of-fact cheekiness: ) It may be helpful to practice, in that case.
[It's hard not to watch him- often is, when they're together, but in this specific moment even more so, while he waits to see how Choso reacts. And there, the first hint of a smile that warms him, starting in his chest and spilling over, overflowing with affection and fond satisfaction. Palamedes likes all of Choso's different smiles, and this one is no exception; the cat that got the cream, pleased with himself, and Palamedes is pleased with himself in turn for being the one to put it there.
He huffs, amused, human hand raised to splay fingers over the back of Choso's neck as he leans in closer. A firm hand on his waist, when is it overwhelming, oh, he's got moves, has he.]
Yes, absolutely. [Wry, but not untrue; Palamedes doesn't lie, after all. He inches toward Choso, letting their legs bump and overlap a bit, the tentacles that have since claimed his other hand giving it a squeeze, for the teasing.] Definitely worth trying again.
[And he leans in to be overwhelmed, kissing him once, twice as swift, short things, no less fond. They've got a bit going, and he can't refuse a bit, so after the second kiss he hums, not pulling away.]
Interesting, [he says, in the 'my hypothesis was not in error' voice that all studious necromancers possess. Not that this makes him terribly smooth, because the next thing he says is an earnest,] My pulse is going haywire. Good thing.
( these aren't the kind of kisses that can go anywhere, but rather, the kind of kisses that he finds himself chasing, even after they've been dotted like punctuation; one, at first, and then another, succinct, soft, the sort that makes him lean in again, their noses touching briefly with the lack of space. with his eyes closed, he can still feel palamedes there: can feel his warm breath, lured into the space between them, can smell the distant scent of soap and shampoo, cursory human things, pretty human things. the word interesting falls between them, in a voice that tells him what palamedes must sound like back home: enough that he feels the urge to laugh, tinged on his breath, trapped in the back of his throat. it's charming, in a way, and reminds him entirely of someone else, all the same; it's pleasurable, enjoyable.
not quite as enjoyable as the pause that seems to indicate there's more kissing to be had. twisting around on manmade monkey bars and wooden bridges created for children aren't the only kinds of play to be had; this is some kind of teasing act, and he's willing to step up into the part.
it doesn't mean he's any less reluctant to lean back, slightly, just enough to get a glimpse of palamedes' face. )
Good thing. ( he agrees, in a low, thoughtful hum. ) But dangerous thing. The safest thing to do here, I think, would be to lay you down.
( one arm lifts, tethered by tentacles, but he uses it to his advantage: bending his arm back, creasing it at the elbow, means that he can pull palamedes up along with him like the strings of a puppet, their 'hands' intertwined. makes it easier to readjust him, guide him down flat to the mattress, as his own weight shifts to roll against him; a little ridiculous, since they're on the bed the wrong way, but if their legs hang over the side, he doesn't care. it's more about edging his shoulders down, hovering over palamedes chest to chest; it's more about the feeling he gets, with palamedes beneath him, the way he has to half-straddle one of his thighs to get the angle right.
a considering tilt of his head, like a bird looking for seed, teasing, as he settles there: ) You have to tell me if you're light-headed. That's the most dangerous, I think.
[Truly, Palamedes just loves a good bit. So too does he enjoy Choso's willingness to humor him with it, playing along as easily as anything. Wanting him includes his sense of humor, so- lucky, that Choso will pick up what he's putting down. It makes him chuckle, going in for another kiss just as Choso moves him; that kiss winds up pressed next to his nose.
Once he's down on the bed he winds the rest of his tentacles around Choso's back, both up by his shoulder blades and down around his waist. So convenient, again, leaving his human hand free to get his fingers back into Choso's hair, all with the satisfaction of a job well done. He has to war with himself for a moment- part of him wants them pressed close like they were before when they hugged, no hovering, all contact; but the rest of him wants to look him in the face for longer, to do a few teasing things with his eyebrows, that part for the bit.
Wrapping all around him is a compromise Palamedes is willing to make, tilting his chin up to press a kiss against Choso's jaw, then towards the corner of his mouth.]
You'll be the first to know. [ha; a longer kiss then, more wanting, more willing to be so openly wanting, with the feeling out there. A moment's respite from The Bit, lips parting as he shifts experimentally, invitation and desire both.
But he also does have a question, one that can wait until that languid kiss comes to its natural end, murmured,] When is it overwhelming for you?
( it--tickles a little, in the worst kind of way, where palamedes' lips brush against his jaw and his shoulders want to duck, where his stomach tangles itself into overheated knots, and he can tell that his face flushes, just a little, the blood mark across the bridge of his nose trembling slightly with effort, like a puddle that's just been disturbed by someone walking through it. getting to this point is easy enough, following his own internal cues: he wants to be close there, wants to watch palamedes' face do all the things it does, beneath him, flat to the mattress--but beyond that, he's not sure where he's allowed to go.
away is definitely not allowed, given the strong wrap of all six tentacles, curled around him, braced at his back, up by his shoulder, down by his waist; but then again, he's not planning to go away, anyway, so that's not much of a problem--or a decision.
his head seems to fall with ease into the kiss, thoughts immediately tumbling out and into nothing; he's starting to understand it, a little better, the things he had been concerned about, the things he had been judgmental of, when it comes to this kind of intimacy. gojou satoru can make his chocolate and candy metaphors all he wants, but actually melting into the feeling gives him an entirely new perspective--the way he feels a little like his thoughts are consumed with nothing but this moment here, like he's gone a little dumb, wrapped up in affection and anticipation.
an honest answer, then, when the kiss breaks, natural and languid: ) It's all overwhelming.
( but it's said with a hint of amusement, a little playful reluctance; his lips curl, slightly, but he's practically talking in against palamedes' mouth, and lifts himself just slightly so he can be better understood. )
But that doesn't mean I don't want it. That's okay, isn't it? I'm not worried.
( not about this, anyway: just perhaps a little more clumsy, at times, than he would like, as he learns. fighting is fluid, and easy, and natural, but kissing, touching, expressing this kind of affection is new, and novel; and it's not like he's ever seen much of it to begin with.)
[Honest answers are the best ones. Palamedes' tentacle-grip tightens just that much more when Choso pulls back- just to speak, which makes him breathe out a laugh at himself, relaxing again. No, of course Choso wouldn't suddenly get up and leave him here, that's not even a possibility; just an errant thought his clingy new arms ran away with before he could think about it.
They can both fumble through it. Palamedes is a thinker, a words person; this kind of intimacy is a learning curve for him, too. He says,]
It's perfect. [Because it's honest,] Overwhelming isn't bad, it's... I don't know, normal. There's nothing to worry about. Talking is still allowed.
[By which he means if something gets too overwhelming, but at the same time, also because he's such a chatterbox. Mostly the first thing.
He grips Choso with his many arms again, this time to use him as a brace to shift his shoulders under him, then his hips, just an inch or two to get himself properly under Choso. Then a press of his inner thigh against Choso's, encouraging; get on over here, press him like a dried flower in an old book, and other such less-than-gentlemanly suggestions only an inner thigh can suggest.
He pulls himself up for another kiss, tender and taking his time again; his new arms don't seem troubled by the physical weakness that plagues the rest of him, adept-build, and it's tempting to stay coiled around like this, pressed up tightly against Choso. They've kissed before and yet this still feels brand new, electric and mesmerizing enough that he could get lost in it for hours.
One tentacle down by Choso's waist gropes for the hem of his sweatshirt, layers underneath if there are any, tugging up and dipping back down to seek warm skin, the base of his spine. Gentlemanly, Palamedes hums a questioning noise against Choso's mouth; May I?]
( 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. )
[Palamedes would be happy to talk for hours uninterrupted; honestly it would be a dream come true. He's liable to talk through this if he's not distracted enough, if Choso's mouth isn't on his, if he isn't rendered otherwise unable to get a coherent word out. The only saving grace is he would stay on topic instead of going on about one of his books.
But this is close enough to what he wanted, yes, and he loosens his tentacles' grip enough to let Choso's sweatshirt slide past them, eagerly sticking back down to his skin as soon as they're able. Not literally sticking— the suckers on these things have teeth, he would at least ask first— but snug and appreciative of warm skin to explore. Even if he can't see with all of Choso sticking him to the mattress- a place he has no complaints about, to be sure- he can rove all over with curious 'fingers,' mapping out the topography of muscle and curve and spine.
All this and the suddenness of another kiss, drawing a breathy laugh out of Palamedes straight into Choso's mouth, sinking back into it almost at once. He'd like to see Choso undressed, beyond a second's glimpse, and surely there will be time- kissing him splits his attention for now. Palamedes' human hand slides up to Choso's cheek, thin fingers gripping his jaw to keep him there in that kiss, without diversions to kissing other parts of him or shifting around again; he kisses with a renewed vigor, with something close to gratitude - thanks, in the absence of actually saying it out loud (like a dweeb), for taking the sweatshirt off.
It's not only about the sweatshirt. Of course not, just the same as it's not really a thank you, it's wanting and being wanted, cherishing and being cherished, a wellspring of emotions he could get lost in if he isn't careful. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst place to be lost, either.
(It is also, a nonzero amount, about compressing him like a .pdf into the mattress, which he's enjoying very much.)
To wit, it takes a great deal of his focus not to stop kissing and start talking again when Choso's hand gropes down to his waist; he looses a tentacle from around Choso's shoulders instead, to slither between them and tug the front of his own shirt up, exposing a few inches of his waist and stomach and not even a single muscle cell, comparatively. Was this the goal? That tentacle glides back up to Choso's shoulder, but not before stopping to stroke affectionately at his hand and wrist first.]
( an unusual warmth, drawn up where each of those little suckers patter over his bare skin, and there's that ticklish feeling again, that heat that seems to build to an uncomfortable degree in the pit of his stomach. new feelings, strange feelings, things he hasn't considered, things that haven't seemed to matter, until now--until coming to this place, until being forced, skidded face to face with them. affection isn't something new to him, and doting on his brothers, no matter which one, isn't new, either; wanting to touch them, to comfort them, to be around them, to stick close to them. but this sort of affection, where he wants to feel palamedes' breath against his, where he wants to feel the way his body melts underneath his, trapped to the mattress--it's a new thing, something that feels oddly too good, or too human, to be true. how can he even express what it feels like: to be wanted just as he is, and to be allowed to want in return?
he doesn't get the chance. he's not as capable as palamedes, weaving his words into something warm, like a continuous story that he wants to listen to for hours--so he's grateful, trapped into the kiss, grateful that he isn't allowed to deviate, grateful that he can part his lips against his and taste the heat between them.
that wandering hand gets silent permission, and honestly, the tentacled reach that palamedes has now is incredibly helpful: he doesn't have to do much of anything, with that shirt pulled up for him, a strong palm and firm fingers that grope and climb up between them, feeling over the side of his stomach, up along his chest, hidden there beneath the fabric. he can content himself with memorizing the feeling of palamedes' skin, rather than trying to politely move his shirt out of the way; he can content himself with feeling what he can without shifting too much, wanting to keep as much of them smothered together as possible.
when the kiss breaks, it isn't a sudden departure; his mouth just slips, a hot breath pattered between them, and without thinking about it, without even considering, his tongue maps over the shape of palamedes' lower lip, like he can sear the taste of his mouth into his memory with it. )
Do you want it off? ( soft, quiet, almost gentlemanly without trying--his lips slope up into a near-bashful smile, as his hand flexes up against the part of the shirt that it's underneath in indication, like it's his heart beating out of the confines of his chest. ) I want it off.
( honest, as always, even if his rimmed gaze is distracted looking at palamedes face so close to his. )
[The steady climb of Choso's hand is searing, dragging over Palamedes' skin in a way he's never been touched there, never been touched in some of those places at all unless he was sick, or injured. Warm desire builds and pulses through him, making him almost antsy with the urge to touch and be touched. His tentacles on shirt duty linger between them, easily capable of sliding into spaces where a whole human arm might not fit, questing over Choso's chest and down to his stomach.
There's a question and a request there, both of which flip his stomach over, a tug of anticipation making itself at home below his ribs, but they both fizzle out of focus in the wake of their kiss, the dart of Choso's tongue against his lip. He looks so lovely up close like this, Palamedes thinks, and does not quip about being glad he kept his glasses on this time. The sentiment is there.
His shirt. Of course. He tips his head back and mumbles,] Yes, in a moment, [and kisses him once more, open-mouthed and wanting, sucking at Choso's lower lip to deepen the kiss and pull him back in closer.
He can multitask, though, as he withdraws each of his tentacles one by one a moment later, to wriggle out the bottom of his shirt and slide right back to where they were, roving over his skin with wanton curiosity.
Inevitably his mouth slides off Choso's to kiss his jaw, back towards his neck; wherever he can still reach as he elbows himself up- on just the one elbow, a smidge crooked- enough that his shirt could be feasibly dragged the rest of the way off.]
Take it off me. [This, low, near Choso's ear, is not a question.]
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Well, there's so much to think about. The rapid-fire questions about his own new arm run rampant into the simple pleasure of being held like this; the psychometry diverts from both, can maybe clear his head for a moment or two.
And he would like to know. From what little he's picked up from what Choso doesn't say, he could take a guess; but no matter the answer he would like to know, the same way it felt necessary that Choso know about his necromancy. More important than the answer is the element of trust, of connection; outside of an academic context it is a rather intimate and personal thing to know about a person.]
Age, yes. I won't suddenly have visions of all your memories, or anything like that, but I'll know your personal energy signature. Maybe a bit about your insides, that kind of thing; it's actually not dissimilar to an... x-ray, with a bonus. You won't feel it.
[He only needs a second; they're already touching. He turns his head- barely, in this configuration- to press nose and mouth into Choso's hair, affectionate.]
I would like to; I'll do it now?
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one hundred and fifty years trapped as a cursed object, speaking only to his brothers, trapped alongside him; only a few months, maybe half a year, incarnated like this, but still not fully human.
if he can taste the cursed energy inside of him, he'll explain it. if he can tell anything else about him--a stillborn child, an experimented child, a child that had three parents, a child that should have never existed--he'll tell him as much as he knows. palamedes wouldn't be the first to hear of it; but he would be the first person here, and even gojou satoru doesn't know the whole truth of it, and likely doesn't want to. he had been dismissed, at first, as a curse needing exorcism, even here: luckily, that had changed before either of them had engaged in a fight.
he can feel palamedes' mouth, brushed against his hair, and wishes he could kiss him; that's a strange thought, new, warm and a little melancholy. )
Alright. ( an easy agreement, calm and trusting--he doesn't know what palamedes needs, so he only pulls back enough to look at him, to bat tired, rimmed eyes at him, to stay, passive, with his arms around him, holding him close.
patient, as he waits for what might be a terrible thing, or a wonderful thing. funny that this is what he had hoped to have his two brothers avoid: he hadn't wanted them to be judged by humans, and now here he is, submitting himself in their stead. that makes him feel, at least, a little better. he's doing things right this time. )
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Psychometry never gives the full story, only the end- and an ending is so much clearer on a body that's died, the thanergetic bloom of death laying a blanket of trace energy that lasts for years and years and years. Items smeared with thanergy are easy to read, will open at the cracks and let out their unseen secrets for him with a little push. The living are harder, but not impossible; he would know if Camilla had passed through a room by the objects that she'd touched.
Still, it's an imperfect thing, and further under the haze thrown over the full scope of his necromancy, and the difference in worlds. Age, simple enough— multiple ages, which for a moment he assumes is the Natural Soul's influence, but- no.
Huh.
Choso's full past he can't see; only this thing about his age, and his insides, and the vague squirming presence of the Natural Soul- left alone, because he's already learned his lesson about that one. All of that and what he can only think of as a strangeness, the energy he doesn't recognize, like a blind spot; he can stare right at it and see nothing at all but the absence of a thing, here in the psychometric context. Thanergy, no, thalergy, absolutely not— closer to the former, maybe, if he had to guess.
He'll ask. But first he says,] Thank you. [For letting him do it, trusting him to do it. With a tilt of his head he presses a kiss to Choso's forehead, like a punctuation mark; he's finished doing the invisible magic, now.]
Can I ask about the... mystery energy? I've never seen anything like it.
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it takes a moment to process, despite all the overthinking--a small, narrowed dent of his brows. )
Mystery energy... Ah. ( a little sheepish, but he can't cover his face with his hand, rub over the bridge of his nose, or do much of anything to expend the slightly nervous trickle that starts down his spine, like he wants to fidget away from the question. )
Cursed energy. ( said slowly, but not as though he thinks palamedes won't understand--more like he's trying himself, on his end, to figure out how to explain it. ) It's a kind of spiritual energy. I imagine... Well, energy is not a foreign concept to you, or necromancy in general, as you've said. Cursed energy comes from...humans. Fear, worry, grief, anger, hatred, envy...Human emotions, which create cursed energy, which creates, if there's a significant amount of it...curses.
Sorcerers exorcise curses, as they haunt and harm humans, and human society. Sorcerers use cursed energy like a weapon, to fuel their attacks, their special techniques, their swords and blades...That sort of thing.
( his gaze swims, somewhere over palamedes' shoulder, to focus on a point further in the room; he's trying to figure out a prettier way to say it, but there's never been a pretty way to begin with. )
I'm not human. Not fully. I'm not a sorcerer, either. A curse, but not fully that, either. ( gaze narrowing, like a wince. ) A complication, maybe. It takes...some explaining.
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He nods anyway; at least academically, he's following the concept of cursed energy.]
Thanergy is like that, sticking around in greater quantities when strong emotions are involved, usually negative. Not quite the same.
[And the necromancers use it, although perhaps not as creatively as swords and blades, considering the cavalier. Not important.
Three of his tentacles are still curled into Choso's hair; he slides a fourth over Choso's shoulder, tracing along his jaw, not quite urging him to look Palamedes in the face again. Just a touch, anchoring, as the tension zigzagging through Choso is hard to miss when they're this close. He's still listening; he's not letting go.]
I wondered if that's what it was, when you asked me about attributes earlier. The human part, of course. [Not this brand new curse thing, specifically.] Do you want to explain?
[Even if he doesn't- Palamedes would consider this wildly fair and reasonable- now they should sit; Palamedes tilts his head towards the bed, significantly. Yes?]
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tethered by palamedes' touch, he thinks about apologizing. three tentacles nestled in his hair get flanked by a fourth, which slips over his shoulder, soft and nearly unnoticed; once it rolls along his jaw, the faintest pressure, he realizes that he's still not making eye contact.
briefly, embarrassed, he looks up--his lips jut out, something of a pout, which might be charming in any other situation; his arms loosen, slip away, but it's only so that he can lift a hand to run his fingertips down along that particular tentacle, tracing it until he can't. )
Is it better if I don't? ( he asks it, genuinely: there's a moment where he allows himself to move forward, to artfully sidestep a neat pile of books, to ease towards the bed, but his hand reaches out for palamedes, first, like he's the guide that's just clearing a path for him, instead. once he's got palamedes seated on the bed, only then will he sink down next to him. )
It doesn't bother me, really. It only bothers me if it...bothers you. ( a slow, careful way to say whatever this is, i would hate to ruin it. )
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Seated, Palamedes turns to draw one leg up on the bed, facing Choso with his chin resting on his knee. He reaches out with the tentacle again, curling around Choso's wrist, snug and secure.]
It doesn't bother me. Truth over solace, which is to say, I would rather know than turn away. Technically the "solace" refers to lies, but...
[He holds up his hand, stopping himself. No, not the time.]
Never mind. Tell me.
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his head tilts, slightly, watching his own touch wander. ) Truth over lies? Mmm. Truth over lies.
( or 'lying by omission' maybe, something that he's learned all the same. )
It...There was a woman, a long time ago. Over a hundred years ago, who somehow gave birth to a strange child. Part curse, part human child. That's not something that's supposed to happen, and I think she...must have been terrified, and took the child to a temple, where sorcerers gathered. Likely asking for help, or for...some kind of support.
This...sorcerer. ( the word comes out harsh, tinged with the edge of anger; his hand stills. ) ...forced her to become his property, and carried out a series of experiments. Nine children, he forced her to bear, terminating them at a different point, a different month, each time. A mix of his sorcerer blood, her human blood, and...a curse. Children with...mm, children who became cursed objects, in their death. Full of cursed energy. Alive, but not alive. Aware, but not aware.
These...objects. ( him. his siblings. one hundred and fifty years, just like that. ) ...were stored, protected, at the sorcery school. But cursed objects are...quite powerful, especially when incarnated. A curse user, someone against sorcerers, took these...cursed wombs, from the school.
( a soft swallow, like he doesn't like the feeling--can feel all of his calm, all of his careful explaining welling up in his throat. ) And I am one of them. They incarnated me, and two of my younger brothers, into new flesh bodies. Part human, part curse. That is the...That is how I came to be.
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Just a bit; just curious. The rest is listening, brow knit in silent dread as the story gets, well, worse and worse. Eight siblings—nine children. Somehow becoming objects- a function of this sorcery?- as if the fate of that poor woman and nine dead children wasn't grim enough for one story. Palamedes knows death, of course, but until recently he has been largely sheltered from cruelty, except in the conceptual; distant, war machine cruelty, impersonal cruelty.
This is a personal cruelty. He thinks, if he could meet this sorcerer, that he would squeeze his heart until it burst. No wonder Choso has leaned into bubbles and board games and playgrounds - what else could there be, besides some yawning chasm of despair?
He shakes his head.]
You really are an excellent big brother. I'm sorry— you and your family deserved better.
[He wants to ask what happened to the others, the ones that weren't incarnated, but if there even is an answer to that, it might just be too much cruelty to listen to at once. Instead, because he thinks it bears saying properly,]
I'm grateful, you know, that you told me. It's devastating in ways I didn't think possible. Still, knowing that about you, my feelings haven't changed.
[So no un-reading, no pretending to forget. He reaches out to cup Choso's cheek in his hand. It's so much to share at once, despite Choso's little asides that sharing it doesn't bother him. It sounds like it does, so-]
Are you alright?
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that faint touch, the cup of palamedes' human hand, does make his gaze lift again to look at him; he considers it for a moment, as though trying to decide carefully what to say. )
...It isn't a problem, for me. The truth of the matter is something that I've known for a long time, longer than the rest of them. And I can be strong for the rest of them. I'm honored to be their brother. It's more...
( his fingertips brush, carefully, over one tapered end of one tentacle--gently tracing over one of the suckers there, idly, like it still brings him some measure of comfort. )
...I worry that you, of all people, would want someone human...beside them. And I don't know if I've earned that. I don't know if I've learned enough, to be human.
( his eyes close, briefly, a rueful sort of half-smile, a little twisted; when his eyes open again, it's to look down at the small space between them. )
It's a little ridiculous. I don't know where my head is. You make it...When I'm around you, it feels... like I'm not thinking with my head. ( the breath that escapes sounds near a laugh. ) Is that normal?
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So, alright. That can be what it is. He says,] Oh, [to the other thing, and does take a few seconds to think about it, if only because he'd never had to consider anyone's humanity in a literal sense before.
The answer is still the same. He hums, catching Choso's finger with that tentacle and wrapping around his hand with a slight squeeze.
With a one-shoulder shrug,] It isn't not normal. Feelings are complicated. So are people.
[It's a very human thing, isn't it, to not know where one's head is. He brushes his thumb over Choso's cheekbone before dropping his hand away, reaching for Choso's other, less occupied one, to hold in turn.]
Do you want to be more human? Apart from the rest. You already have me, and I don't want to be beside you any less than I did, what, an hour ago? You're more than your... human percentage. "Someone human" is a checklist— I prefer you.
[The question stands, though, with an inquiring tilt of his head: does Choso want to be more human, actively, for himself? Palamedes is committed either way, in the end.]
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so there's a considering tilt of his head, a soft shake of it, loose hair brushed against his face. )
I'd like to be able to be. I'd like to learn. I'd like to try living like a human, more, instead of...instead of other things.
( but that doesn't necessarily translate to everything else--and living like a human, being a human, doesn't necessarily mean he's entitled to things that he might want, anyway. conflating the ideas together doesn't feel right; palamedes is kind, and has been a kind friend--or whatever the word might be, there, some hazy in-between--but that doesn't necessarily mean that he feels that same fuzzy-headed heat.
politely, reluctantly, he lets both hands rest in his lap: the heat from the tentacles, wrapped around him, feels comforting still, and he doesn't want to break away entirely. better to stay here, until he's encouraged not to. )
...In any case, I took up a lot of your time. You were worrying about your own changes, and I don't think I've made anything better. I'm sorry.
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Which he has to wonder if it isn't, actually, after this other thing. He shakes his head, shifting to put his knee down and out of the way to draw Choso in closer- one of the newly acquired benefits of having so many arms, he doesn't even have to let go of his hands before he runs out of tentacles.]
You don't think so? You listened. You came. [That on its own means a lot to Palamedes, the simple fact that he would try so readily to make him feel better. Maybe coming to the room had been for other reasons, true, but walking in the door and picking Palamedes right up off the floor to hug him is also not insignificant.]
I like being with you, I want you to take up my time. You can have more of it, if you want. [Anytime, like he'd said; not an exaggeration.] Don't you—
[—also want that? Not in the literal, attached-at-the-hip kind of way, so impractical; but in the metaphorical, swimmy, feelings kind of way.]
Hmm. What do you want?
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there's a soft chuckle, fond and wryly amused, under his breath--but it feels like he might just sink himself into his sweatshirt and melt away, at the words. harder to do it when he's not in his robes, with all the extra material to sink inside: all he can do here is purse his lips and angle his gaze down.
he considers the question, thoroughly serious, and his mouth opens--then closes, a slow sigh of breath. )
I want... I want you. No, that-- ( his eyes narrow, staring down at where his hand is squeezing around palamedes' thigh, and loosens his grip. ) --is what I mean, but that is not. ...Gentleman...ly.
( so he tries again, slowly. ) I like all of it, too. I want more of it. I just don't...Mmnn, I don't know if... Does it also feel like that, when you're around...me? Like it's... All warm, like your head isn't on right, like...wanting...like that.
( his eyes narrow, lidded and rimmed with their usual exhaustion; but he does, at least, look back up at palamedes, because this deserves his calm intent, his patient observation. )
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Perhaps he could pull less, he thinks, although he isn't upset when Choso slips forward, grips his thigh. He could have pitched all the way forward and knocked them both over, with all the leeway Palamedes is willing to give him; this, and the return of gentlemanly, is its own kind of charming. The kind of charming that nonetheless sets his chest fluttering, earning a small but warm smile. Palamedes is a sucker for an endearing vulnerability, which is this in spades; add in the electric sizzle that goes through him at hearing 'I want you,' and he's just gone.
Insistently, he says,] Yes. I like the feeling.
[He likes to be a little flustered, which feels like a key aspect. The surprised lurch of being lifted off the floor and the comfort of being held anyway, that contradiction; exploring a new thing and wanting more of it, all the time. Looking at Choso and studying the way he moves his hands and the shape of his mouth— yes, it's good.]
I do want you, too, you know. Gentlemanly and otherwise. Being around you is... [he considers, lips pursed, then nods,] warm, like you said. So warm that I don't even care if my head is on upside down or backwards.
[Aha. Slightly sheepish,] That is to say, it's nice. Even when it's overwhelming.
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and that feels good. that feels like it makes it even more special, because it's genuine--because it's permitted, because he isn't troubling palamedes, or burdening him with something strange.
the warm tilt of his mouth edges just slightly, just the faintest, tiniest little hint of smug pleasure: that the person he wants to be close to, like this, also wants to be close to him. it gives him a little more confidence, at least, to feel comfortable in the situation; it means that his hand lifts, wraps itself instead up along palamedes' waist, smoothing his fingers out to his back to use him as a tether to lean himself even closer. )
When is it overwhelming? ( this, he feels, is the right thread to tug on: palamedes left him so many, but this one feels particularly--good, like he might be able to tell where it's going to go. )
...When we kissed. Was it overwhelming? ( the warm way his gaze flickers over palamedes' features is both appreciative and wanting; maybe he's hoping for an answer that he likes. and there it is, that calm, matter-of-fact cheekiness: ) It may be helpful to practice, in that case.
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He huffs, amused, human hand raised to splay fingers over the back of Choso's neck as he leans in closer. A firm hand on his waist, when is it overwhelming, oh, he's got moves, has he.]
Yes, absolutely. [Wry, but not untrue; Palamedes doesn't lie, after all. He inches toward Choso, letting their legs bump and overlap a bit, the tentacles that have since claimed his other hand giving it a squeeze, for the teasing.] Definitely worth trying again.
[And he leans in to be overwhelmed, kissing him once, twice as swift, short things, no less fond. They've got a bit going, and he can't refuse a bit, so after the second kiss he hums, not pulling away.]
Interesting, [he says, in the 'my hypothesis was not in error' voice that all studious necromancers possess. Not that this makes him terribly smooth, because the next thing he says is an earnest,] My pulse is going haywire. Good thing.
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not quite as enjoyable as the pause that seems to indicate there's more kissing to be had. twisting around on manmade monkey bars and wooden bridges created for children aren't the only kinds of play to be had; this is some kind of teasing act, and he's willing to step up into the part.
it doesn't mean he's any less reluctant to lean back, slightly, just enough to get a glimpse of palamedes' face. )
Good thing. ( he agrees, in a low, thoughtful hum. ) But dangerous thing. The safest thing to do here, I think, would be to lay you down.
( one arm lifts, tethered by tentacles, but he uses it to his advantage: bending his arm back, creasing it at the elbow, means that he can pull palamedes up along with him like the strings of a puppet, their 'hands' intertwined. makes it easier to readjust him, guide him down flat to the mattress, as his own weight shifts to roll against him; a little ridiculous, since they're on the bed the wrong way, but if their legs hang over the side, he doesn't care. it's more about edging his shoulders down, hovering over palamedes chest to chest; it's more about the feeling he gets, with palamedes beneath him, the way he has to half-straddle one of his thighs to get the angle right.
a considering tilt of his head, like a bird looking for seed, teasing, as he settles there: ) You have to tell me if you're light-headed. That's the most dangerous, I think.
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Once he's down on the bed he winds the rest of his tentacles around Choso's back, both up by his shoulder blades and down around his waist. So convenient, again, leaving his human hand free to get his fingers back into Choso's hair, all with the satisfaction of a job well done. He has to war with himself for a moment- part of him wants them pressed close like they were before when they hugged, no hovering, all contact; but the rest of him wants to look him in the face for longer, to do a few teasing things with his eyebrows, that part for the bit.
Wrapping all around him is a compromise Palamedes is willing to make, tilting his chin up to press a kiss against Choso's jaw, then towards the corner of his mouth.]
You'll be the first to know. [ha; a longer kiss then, more wanting, more willing to be so openly wanting, with the feeling out there. A moment's respite from The Bit, lips parting as he shifts experimentally, invitation and desire both.
But he also does have a question, one that can wait until that languid kiss comes to its natural end, murmured,] When is it overwhelming for you?
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away is definitely not allowed, given the strong wrap of all six tentacles, curled around him, braced at his back, up by his shoulder, down by his waist; but then again, he's not planning to go away, anyway, so that's not much of a problem--or a decision.
his head seems to fall with ease into the kiss, thoughts immediately tumbling out and into nothing; he's starting to understand it, a little better, the things he had been concerned about, the things he had been judgmental of, when it comes to this kind of intimacy. gojou satoru can make his chocolate and candy metaphors all he wants, but actually melting into the feeling gives him an entirely new perspective--the way he feels a little like his thoughts are consumed with nothing but this moment here, like he's gone a little dumb, wrapped up in affection and anticipation.
an honest answer, then, when the kiss breaks, natural and languid: ) It's all overwhelming.
( but it's said with a hint of amusement, a little playful reluctance; his lips curl, slightly, but he's practically talking in against palamedes' mouth, and lifts himself just slightly so he can be better understood. )
But that doesn't mean I don't want it. That's okay, isn't it? I'm not worried.
( not about this, anyway: just perhaps a little more clumsy, at times, than he would like, as he learns. fighting is fluid, and easy, and natural, but kissing, touching, expressing this kind of affection is new, and novel; and it's not like he's ever seen much of it to begin with.)
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They can both fumble through it. Palamedes is a thinker, a words person; this kind of intimacy is a learning curve for him, too. He says,]
It's perfect. [Because it's honest,] Overwhelming isn't bad, it's... I don't know, normal. There's nothing to worry about. Talking is still allowed.
[By which he means if something gets too overwhelming, but at the same time, also because he's such a chatterbox. Mostly the first thing.
He grips Choso with his many arms again, this time to use him as a brace to shift his shoulders under him, then his hips, just an inch or two to get himself properly under Choso. Then a press of his inner thigh against Choso's, encouraging; get on over here, press him like a dried flower in an old book, and other such less-than-gentlemanly suggestions only an inner thigh can suggest.
He pulls himself up for another kiss, tender and taking his time again; his new arms don't seem troubled by the physical weakness that plagues the rest of him, adept-build, and it's tempting to stay coiled around like this, pressed up tightly against Choso. They've kissed before and yet this still feels brand new, electric and mesmerizing enough that he could get lost in it for hours.
One tentacle down by Choso's waist gropes for the hem of his sweatshirt, layers underneath if there are any, tugging up and dipping back down to seek warm skin, the base of his spine. Gentlemanly, Palamedes hums a questioning noise against Choso's mouth; May I?]
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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. )
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But this is close enough to what he wanted, yes, and he loosens his tentacles' grip enough to let Choso's sweatshirt slide past them, eagerly sticking back down to his skin as soon as they're able. Not literally sticking— the suckers on these things have teeth, he would at least ask first— but snug and appreciative of warm skin to explore. Even if he can't see with all of Choso sticking him to the mattress- a place he has no complaints about, to be sure- he can rove all over with curious 'fingers,' mapping out the topography of muscle and curve and spine.
All this and the suddenness of another kiss, drawing a breathy laugh out of Palamedes straight into Choso's mouth, sinking back into it almost at once. He'd like to see Choso undressed, beyond a second's glimpse, and surely there will be time- kissing him splits his attention for now. Palamedes' human hand slides up to Choso's cheek, thin fingers gripping his jaw to keep him there in that kiss, without diversions to kissing other parts of him or shifting around again; he kisses with a renewed vigor, with something close to gratitude - thanks, in the absence of actually saying it out loud (like a dweeb), for taking the sweatshirt off.
It's not only about the sweatshirt. Of course not, just the same as it's not really a thank you, it's wanting and being wanted, cherishing and being cherished, a wellspring of emotions he could get lost in if he isn't careful. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst place to be lost, either.
(It is also, a nonzero amount, about compressing him like a .pdf into the mattress, which he's enjoying very much.)
To wit, it takes a great deal of his focus not to stop kissing and start talking again when Choso's hand gropes down to his waist; he looses a tentacle from around Choso's shoulders instead, to slither between them and tug the front of his own shirt up, exposing a few inches of his waist and stomach and not even a single muscle cell, comparatively. Was this the goal? That tentacle glides back up to Choso's shoulder, but not before stopping to stroke affectionately at his hand and wrist first.]
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he doesn't get the chance. he's not as capable as palamedes, weaving his words into something warm, like a continuous story that he wants to listen to for hours--so he's grateful, trapped into the kiss, grateful that he isn't allowed to deviate, grateful that he can part his lips against his and taste the heat between them.
that wandering hand gets silent permission, and honestly, the tentacled reach that palamedes has now is incredibly helpful: he doesn't have to do much of anything, with that shirt pulled up for him, a strong palm and firm fingers that grope and climb up between them, feeling over the side of his stomach, up along his chest, hidden there beneath the fabric. he can content himself with memorizing the feeling of palamedes' skin, rather than trying to politely move his shirt out of the way; he can content himself with feeling what he can without shifting too much, wanting to keep as much of them smothered together as possible.
when the kiss breaks, it isn't a sudden departure; his mouth just slips, a hot breath pattered between them, and without thinking about it, without even considering, his tongue maps over the shape of palamedes' lower lip, like he can sear the taste of his mouth into his memory with it. )
Do you want it off? ( soft, quiet, almost gentlemanly without trying--his lips slope up into a near-bashful smile, as his hand flexes up against the part of the shirt that it's underneath in indication, like it's his heart beating out of the confines of his chest. ) I want it off.
( honest, as always, even if his rimmed gaze is distracted looking at palamedes face so close to his. )
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There's a question and a request there, both of which flip his stomach over, a tug of anticipation making itself at home below his ribs, but they both fizzle out of focus in the wake of their kiss, the dart of Choso's tongue against his lip. He looks so lovely up close like this, Palamedes thinks, and does not quip about being glad he kept his glasses on this time. The sentiment is there.
His shirt. Of course. He tips his head back and mumbles,] Yes, in a moment, [and kisses him once more, open-mouthed and wanting, sucking at Choso's lower lip to deepen the kiss and pull him back in closer.
He can multitask, though, as he withdraws each of his tentacles one by one a moment later, to wriggle out the bottom of his shirt and slide right back to where they were, roving over his skin with wanton curiosity.
Inevitably his mouth slides off Choso's to kiss his jaw, back towards his neck; wherever he can still reach as he elbows himself up- on just the one elbow, a smidge crooked- enough that his shirt could be feasibly dragged the rest of the way off.]
Take it off me. [This, low, near Choso's ear, is not a question.]
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