[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.]
( it's hard to explain what that reaction does to him--hard to explain the sudden feeling of cold that washes over only because it feels deceptively cooler, in comparison to those words, which hit him like a pot of boiling water; it's easy to have control over himself when the control comes with practiced precision, to move his human body in the ways that he's taught himself, but to succumb to his human whims is another thing entirely. his mouth falters with breath, like a part of him wants to take palamedes by the lip and roll him into another kiss, an echo of that open-mouthed wanting; a part of him wants to immediately rip off the material between them, neither of which are very stately, or gentlemanly, or polite in that longing sort of way that he feels like romance is perceived.
a short swallow, then, like it helps bury down the urge, like it helps that crawling feeling of longing, where palamedes had kissed his jaw.
there's something enticingly intimate about it, in his mind, and while he's undressed in front of others for less--communal bathing, for example--it feels entirely different to move his weight up enough so that he can use the hand under palamedes' shirt to start to guide it up, and over. not too much to get rid of, when it comes down to it, but once he's gently stretched the fabric past one shoulder, his head, and then the other, he can drag it away from palamedes' human arm and leave it somewhere along the bed beside them. doesn't matter. he won't need it back.
of course, that does leave his glasses a little askew: he considers them for a moment, as he's considering the rest of it, a half-bent arm to the mattress himself as though to keep himself lifted enough to get a good look at the bared skin. his tongue skates over his own lip; his breath forces itself to steady there. )
You want to see. ( he assumes, softly; his free hand lifts so that he can carefully adjust the bridge of his glasses on his nose, fingertips running down over the side of his face, under his jaw, tipping his head up slightly before he lets that arm drop so he can steady his weight between both of them, more comfortable. ) I'll be careful.
( this means a slow, stretch of his weight down, just enough of a shift that he can tuck his head near one shoulder, mouth now dedicated to mapping out newly discovered skin with the warm, weighted press of kisses, near to a collarbone, dipped lower towards his chest. there's something inspiring about keeping them pressed skin to skin, but in the end, his mouth is too eager: he wants to continue his research from the last time, continue kissing until he finds a spot that works palamedes up just as much as a simple request melted him away. )
[Palamedes kisses that spot on his jaw again in the interim, waiting until he feels Choso shift his hand under his shirt before he actually pulls away and lets it get lifted over his head. There's a thrill in it, even as it knocks his glasses around, even for an action as simple as getting his shirt over his head. It's a thrill that lives in his chest, a fluttering, hummingbird thing, quickened by the way Choso looks down at him with open desire.
That gaze and the quiet way Choso fusses over his glasses make Palamedes feel like he's pinned in place, different from how he's been physically pressed against the bed; held right here because Choso wants to be someone who takes care of him, because he'll be careful. Palamedes can only smile up at him, again briefly overwhelmed with affection to be cared for in these small ways, intimate and probably, to many people, pointless; but Choso adjusts his glasses for him and Palamedes wants to melt into him completely.
Before he can, though, before he's left to dissolve into the mattress in earnest, Choso dips down to distract him anew with the trail of his mouth. His human hand follows the movement to wrap against the back of Choso's neck, an encouraging movement to accompany the way the rest of his body reacts.
Then he has double cause to melt, and more than enough opportunity to do it, as Choso's mouth trails lower. Palamedes sighs out his pleasure, content, even languid with the sensation of Choso's mouth against his skin, each sweet press leaving him curving up from the mattress more than the last. It's the slow buildup of that heat in his stomach that undoes him more than any one spot, and it feels like he's nearly taken by surprise, like his skin goes more sensitive all at once and makes his breath stutter, body hot under the attention.
His fingers find their way into Choso's hair again, already a habit. Now when Choso brushes his lips against a sensitive spot- soon to be all of him, if this keeps up- he grips tighter in his hair, curving up to meet him there, hyper-aware of all the places their bodies meet and briefly spiraling into other thoughts of more and more.]
Do you, [he says, and then stops, wet his lips with his tongue, starts again,] Won't you let me kiss you, too?
[All over, specifically, but his mouth is feeling perilously un-kissed up here, the neglect of a handful of minutes.]
( 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.
[A reprieve in that kiss, from the overwhelming thrum of wanting in Palamedes' whole body, even as meeting Choso's lips and tongue with his own tug that thread even tighter. Re-centering from the dizzying hypotheticals of Choso's mouth elsewhere, wanting too many things all at once, and yet Palamedes knows he would simply unravel, kissed this way enough times.
Something to look forward to. He murmurs something quiet and nonsensical between them as Choso shifts, a quip about doing anything far less important than kissing Choso again on the end of it. Briefly he turns his head a fraction, to judge the space between the two of them and the wall, considering the last time.]
You'll have to indulge me in the illusion that I can roll you over, [he says, giving Choso's shoulder a barely-there nudge, for emphasis on how he is not exactly built for it.] So, let's indulge.
[That's all the persuasion it should take, in his opinion, in this moment. He has the new benefit of six extra arms' worth of strength, he quickly finds, the tentacles already wrapped around Choso making him eat his words near instantly with how much easier it is to turn them over like that. Somewhere in the middle he pauses for a beat, set upon involuntarily by the need to scientifically chart how in hell the rest of his body can power these arms, making a face, but he gets past it with a slight shake of his head and pulling himself up to look down at Choso.
Indulgent, just to hover close an extra couple seconds, to appreciate the heat of their mingled breath. Even more so to settle over Choso in stages, dipping to kiss him long and languid, then skin against skin once more, chest to chest; a careful shift of his hips and his thigh slotted between Choso's. The kiss doesn't break so much as slide into something else, as Palamedes angles kisses down to Choso's jawline and neck, soft and slow and affectionate. Warm, and practically adoring as he presses his lips over a fluttering pulse point and trails lower down the line of Choso's throat, attentive to Choso's responses from his breath all the way to his heart rate.
Necromancer perk.]
You're gorgeous, you know, [he says, barely above a whisper, near the dip of a collarbone.] Is there anywhere that's off limits?
[Just let him know; in the meantime he slides lower, hand drifting down to grip Choso's hip and work its way up instead.]
( 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. )
[The look of Choso beneath him like this is sweet in a way that makes Palamedes' heart nearly ache. Not that he isn't always sweet, or that it was less sweet to be adored while his own back was on the mattress, but there's an endearing vulnerability to Choso like this that Palamedes wants to cradle in his hands- well, appendages, he supposes- and never let go. This moment deserves to be preserved in amber, the soft intensity of it, the look on Choso's face.
Palamedes has a good memory; he'll remember. So too will he remember the uneven sound of Choso's breathing and the heat that radiates off his skin, under the affections of his mouth. He's acutely aware, this close, of the way the tension coils through Choso, and with blanket permission to do anything— he wants to feel Choso react more, to memorize the way his muscles move and his hips shift, possessed of the heady desire for more and more and more. To draw these things out of Choso himself, to run his hand up Choso's side and over his chest and back down again, thumb pressing into the dip of his hip while his kisses trail over the taut expanse of his stomach.
I like it, he says, simple as anything; Palamedes hums against his skin, reaches up blindly with his tentacles to patter affectionately against Choso's cheek and neck.]
You know just what to say, [he says, with a hint of a tease; not entirely, because Choso's little reassurances are absolutely doing it for him, but still with that affectionate tease. He presses a kiss open-mouthed next to Choso's navel, relishing the spot with an experimental flick of his tongue, his own breath going ragged and hot against Choso's skin. He's meandered this far and now he lingers, each kiss overlapping the last, dipping lower at a glacial pace. He's gone far enough that his legs are hanging off the bed again, even after all the effort to move, and that matters not at all compared to where he's got his hand and mouth.
The waistband of Choso's pants isn't a deterrent, he kisses that too, and continues his path lower with no change other than pressing his mouth against the fabric. He's not less affectionate, almost reverent in his ministrations, but pausing before he's full-on mouthing against Choso's groin through his pants. Anything is cute, but it's worth it to check in; he leans his cheek against Choso's hip, opposite his hand.]
We don't have to go any further than you want to. This is already perfect. [Earnest; he could keep kissing Choso like this endlessly, he's certain of it.] But if you want to, just say the word.
[And another kiss gets pressed just inside his hip, for reassurance.]
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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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a short swallow, then, like it helps bury down the urge, like it helps that crawling feeling of longing, where palamedes had kissed his jaw.
there's something enticingly intimate about it, in his mind, and while he's undressed in front of others for less--communal bathing, for example--it feels entirely different to move his weight up enough so that he can use the hand under palamedes' shirt to start to guide it up, and over. not too much to get rid of, when it comes down to it, but once he's gently stretched the fabric past one shoulder, his head, and then the other, he can drag it away from palamedes' human arm and leave it somewhere along the bed beside them. doesn't matter. he won't need it back.
of course, that does leave his glasses a little askew: he considers them for a moment, as he's considering the rest of it, a half-bent arm to the mattress himself as though to keep himself lifted enough to get a good look at the bared skin. his tongue skates over his own lip; his breath forces itself to steady there. )
You want to see. ( he assumes, softly; his free hand lifts so that he can carefully adjust the bridge of his glasses on his nose, fingertips running down over the side of his face, under his jaw, tipping his head up slightly before he lets that arm drop so he can steady his weight between both of them, more comfortable. ) I'll be careful.
( this means a slow, stretch of his weight down, just enough of a shift that he can tuck his head near one shoulder, mouth now dedicated to mapping out newly discovered skin with the warm, weighted press of kisses, near to a collarbone, dipped lower towards his chest. there's something inspiring about keeping them pressed skin to skin, but in the end, his mouth is too eager: he wants to continue his research from the last time, continue kissing until he finds a spot that works palamedes up just as much as a simple request melted him away. )
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That gaze and the quiet way Choso fusses over his glasses make Palamedes feel like he's pinned in place, different from how he's been physically pressed against the bed; held right here because Choso wants to be someone who takes care of him, because he'll be careful. Palamedes can only smile up at him, again briefly overwhelmed with affection to be cared for in these small ways, intimate and probably, to many people, pointless; but Choso adjusts his glasses for him and Palamedes wants to melt into him completely.
Before he can, though, before he's left to dissolve into the mattress in earnest, Choso dips down to distract him anew with the trail of his mouth. His human hand follows the movement to wrap against the back of Choso's neck, an encouraging movement to accompany the way the rest of his body reacts.
Then he has double cause to melt, and more than enough opportunity to do it, as Choso's mouth trails lower. Palamedes sighs out his pleasure, content, even languid with the sensation of Choso's mouth against his skin, each sweet press leaving him curving up from the mattress more than the last. It's the slow buildup of that heat in his stomach that undoes him more than any one spot, and it feels like he's nearly taken by surprise, like his skin goes more sensitive all at once and makes his breath stutter, body hot under the attention.
His fingers find their way into Choso's hair again, already a habit. Now when Choso brushes his lips against a sensitive spot- soon to be all of him, if this keeps up- he grips tighter in his hair, curving up to meet him there, hyper-aware of all the places their bodies meet and briefly spiraling into other thoughts of more and more.]
Do you, [he says, and then stops, wet his lips with his tongue, starts again,] Won't you let me kiss you, too?
[All over, specifically, but his mouth is feeling perilously un-kissed up here, the neglect of a handful of minutes.]
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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.
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Something to look forward to. He murmurs something quiet and nonsensical between them as Choso shifts, a quip about doing anything far less important than kissing Choso again on the end of it. Briefly he turns his head a fraction, to judge the space between the two of them and the wall, considering the last time.]
You'll have to indulge me in the illusion that I can roll you over, [he says, giving Choso's shoulder a barely-there nudge, for emphasis on how he is not exactly built for it.] So, let's indulge.
[That's all the persuasion it should take, in his opinion, in this moment. He has the new benefit of six extra arms' worth of strength, he quickly finds, the tentacles already wrapped around Choso making him eat his words near instantly with how much easier it is to turn them over like that. Somewhere in the middle he pauses for a beat, set upon involuntarily by the need to scientifically chart how in hell the rest of his body can power these arms, making a face, but he gets past it with a slight shake of his head and pulling himself up to look down at Choso.
Indulgent, just to hover close an extra couple seconds, to appreciate the heat of their mingled breath. Even more so to settle over Choso in stages, dipping to kiss him long and languid, then skin against skin once more, chest to chest; a careful shift of his hips and his thigh slotted between Choso's. The kiss doesn't break so much as slide into something else, as Palamedes angles kisses down to Choso's jawline and neck, soft and slow and affectionate. Warm, and practically adoring as he presses his lips over a fluttering pulse point and trails lower down the line of Choso's throat, attentive to Choso's responses from his breath all the way to his heart rate.
Necromancer perk.]
You're gorgeous, you know, [he says, barely above a whisper, near the dip of a collarbone.] Is there anywhere that's off limits?
[Just let him know; in the meantime he slides lower, hand drifting down to grip Choso's hip and work its way up instead.]
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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. )
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Palamedes has a good memory; he'll remember. So too will he remember the uneven sound of Choso's breathing and the heat that radiates off his skin, under the affections of his mouth. He's acutely aware, this close, of the way the tension coils through Choso, and with blanket permission to do anything— he wants to feel Choso react more, to memorize the way his muscles move and his hips shift, possessed of the heady desire for more and more and more. To draw these things out of Choso himself, to run his hand up Choso's side and over his chest and back down again, thumb pressing into the dip of his hip while his kisses trail over the taut expanse of his stomach.
I like it, he says, simple as anything; Palamedes hums against his skin, reaches up blindly with his tentacles to patter affectionately against Choso's cheek and neck.]
You know just what to say, [he says, with a hint of a tease; not entirely, because Choso's little reassurances are absolutely doing it for him, but still with that affectionate tease. He presses a kiss open-mouthed next to Choso's navel, relishing the spot with an experimental flick of his tongue, his own breath going ragged and hot against Choso's skin. He's meandered this far and now he lingers, each kiss overlapping the last, dipping lower at a glacial pace. He's gone far enough that his legs are hanging off the bed again, even after all the effort to move, and that matters not at all compared to where he's got his hand and mouth.
The waistband of Choso's pants isn't a deterrent, he kisses that too, and continues his path lower with no change other than pressing his mouth against the fabric. He's not less affectionate, almost reverent in his ministrations, but pausing before he's full-on mouthing against Choso's groin through his pants. Anything is cute, but it's worth it to check in; he leans his cheek against Choso's hip, opposite his hand.]
We don't have to go any further than you want to. This is already perfect. [Earnest; he could keep kissing Choso like this endlessly, he's certain of it.] But if you want to, just say the word.
[And another kiss gets pressed just inside his hip, for reassurance.]
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